


Journeys

by hautesauce



Series: Wake Up: A Destiel Story [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season 12, Annoyed Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Castiel, Bottom Dean, Canon Compliant through Season 11, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Destiel - Freeform, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eventual Smut, Grace Kink, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Heavy Angst, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Impala Sex, Jealous Dean, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Mixtape, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Sam Ships It, Slow Burn, Top Castiel, Wing Kink, Winged Castiel, a bit of crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2018-11-04 20:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 32,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10998729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hautesauce/pseuds/hautesauce
Summary: Part three of the Wake Up trilogy!The boys are back in the bunker with a new guest, which means new complications. Dean wants Castiel to make himself at home, but what does that mean, exactly? Sam is fixated on helping his new girlfriend Charlene navigate the repercussions of being possibly more than human, but she is more concerned with helping Castiel explore what it means to be more than an angel. Jealousy, mystery, and smut abound!I'll be posting this in sections over time. Comments are life!-----She leaned up against the dresser and put the pen to her chin. “Okay, Cas, let’s begin at the beginning. How did you meet?”He blinked slowly at her and didn’t speak for a moment. Then he began, voice low, purposeful, almost proud. “It was commanded of me. Heaven needed Dean. He broke the first seal of Lucifer’s cage, and he was the only one could prevent the Apocalypse. I was sent into hostile territory as a Warrior of God. I flew through hell fire and the sound of millions of souls screaming in agony. I wrestled a knife from his hands, wrapped my grace around his soul, and dragged him from Perdition.”Charlene’s mouth hung open as she stared at Castiel through dark lashes. “Holy shit.”





	1. Just Listen

It was a quiet night in the bunker, the boys having long retired to their sleeping quarters. Charlene wandered alone, padding barefoot on long legs through the halls and the rooms, taking notice of the building’s whispers. In her baggy t-shirt and pajama pants she moved with silent grace; she didn’t fear awakening Sam or Dean. Charlene knew the building had her own heart, her own desires, but no one took the time to hear them. She traced the masonry with curious fingers and swept her short black hair behind an ear to listen closely at a vent as it confided in her. She sighed inaudibly, closed her eyes, and let her head tilt to gently rest against to wall.

“Hello, Charlene,” came a gruff voice from behind her.

“Hello, Castiel,” she murmured in reply.

“What are you doing?” asked Castiel curiously.

“Listening.”

“To what?”

“To the bunker.”

“...I see,” he said, after a moment.

“But do you hear?” With that, she turned around, a sad smile flickering across her face when got an eyeful of the angel. 

Castiel stood before her, not in his usual rumpled suit and trenchcoat, but in a pair of Dean’s sweatpants and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Dean insisted that the bunker was Castiel’s home now, and that he should relax… or at least look relaxed. Having no clothes of his own and no opportunity to purchase any, Dean gave him some hand me downs. That night was the first time he’d tried them on.

“Close your eyes and listen with me.” She took the angel’s hand and he complied, closed his eyes and awaited her instructions. They’d only known one another for a week, but Castiel already understood that if Charlene asked you to do something, it was best just to go with it.

“What am I listening for?” he inquired softly.

“Shhh… just listen.”

They stood there in silence, and after a while Castiel noticed a faint, thrumming, like a low-level electrical surge or the purr of an engine. It was soft, and seemed to pulse up and down in a rhythm. Then, over the top of it, he could hear a barely noticeable whoosh. It was like the sound of his blood rushing through his ears after intense physical exertion, an ocean in a conch. 

“Curious,” muttered Castiel after a few minutes.

“Isn't it?” asked Charlene with a small smile. She knew what he found curious; she experienced it every night. When he didn’t reply, she gave his hand a small squeeze and opened her eyes. Her cobalt met with his azure, and he stared at her thoughtfully under heavy lids. Her heart and lungs had synced up with the whoosh and humm of the bunker, and she knew just from looking at him that his had as well.

“That was quite meditative,” he noted. “I assume that is why you keep coming out here once everyone else is in bed. It is --”

“Peaceful,” they said in tandem. He nodded knowingly.

Her mouth curled into a half smile. “It helps me get to sleep. I’m still adjusting. My dreams are…” her smiled turned to a grimace, “quite awful.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” he offered softly. “Perhaps I can help.”

“You offerin’ to go nightmare spelunking into the Charlene Caverns?” she smirked.

“If that is your wish, I would be more than happy to--”

“Cas,” she interrupted, “it’s okay. I don’t even know what I’m dealing with yet, okay? If I need Celestial Seal Team Six, I’ll let you know.” She let go of his hand and gently ran hers along the wall. “Right now, I’m doing the work, and this lovely lady is helping quite a bit. No need for the nuclear option yet.”

Charlene could tell that Castiel didn’t believe her, but thankfully he didn’t press the issue. She knew how she looked; she’d seen a mirror. Her normally pale face was an even sicklier wan, and the purple undertones of her skin were too close to the surface surrounding her previously effulgent eyes. Her normally lustrous hair hung dully around her face, and every smile felt like drawing a heavy curtain that only let in the flat, grey light of an overcast day. She was the source of her own pain; it was the least she could do to not let it burden those around her.

His eyes fell to the tile below their feet, and he shifted shyly from one foot to the other. “Would you like my company? Or should I leave?”

“I always like your company, Castiel.” His eyes lifted to meet hers, and in them he saw unvarnished gratitude. He nodded solemnly, and followed her as she took a right into the main library.

“So, how’s Dean?” she asked, and though she was in front of him he thought he detected the barest hint of a smirk.

“You need to be more specific,” he replied, his patented deadpan belied by a smile of his own.

“Well, I haven’t been out of my room much lately, and I just wanted to know how you two were… adjusting.” 

“It is odd,” he said, softly.

“Odd?”

“Yes. Many things have changed very quickly, and I am still trying to figure out the best way to move forward.”

She turned to face him. “I noticed you have your own room,” she prompted leadingly.

“As do you,” he countered.

“But I’m a guest.”

“Are you?” 

“More so than you, Cas.”

He tilted his head curiously, then softly asked, “I am my own person, am I not? I am entitled to my own space.”

“I one hundred percent agree with you there,” she nodded. “What does Dean think about that?”

Castiel’s eyes flicked down. “He did not comment on it in a negative way.”

“Did he comment on it in an affirmative way?”

“Not exactly. I told him it was what I wanted, and he stuck out his lower lip at me, after which he said,” Castiel made air quotes, “‘whatever you need, babe.’”

“I see,” she said with a knowing flicker in her eyes. “It’s not like you sleep; I’m sure just staring at him all night isn’t appealing.”

“It is in a way; to be honest I have done it frequently over the years without him being aware of it.”

“That’s creepy... in a hot way.”

He narrowed his eyes for a moment, then said, “It’s just… I enjoy having solitude from time to time. Having a space just for me…”

“You should have your own things, Cas,” she agreed. It’s part of being human.” She reached out and fingered the hem of the t-shirt he was wearing. 

“What do you think?” he asked, gruff voice soft and shy.

“Of the clothes?”

He nodded.

“I think it’s cute, but it’s not exactly you.”

“Did you prefer the suit? The coat?”

She shrugged. “That was more like… a uniform. You looked good in it, but I suspect you’d look good in most things,” she raised a mischievous eyebrow, and he felt a flush rise in his cheeks. “While dressing up in your boyfriend’s clothes is beyond adorable, I’d be interested to see what you’d pick out for yourself.”

“Perhaps when you are feeling better, you can help me find clothes,” he suggested awkwardly. “I am quite sure I would struggle without an escort, and I highly doubt it is something Dean would be interested in.”

“Don’t sell him short, Cas. He may surprise you.”

Castiel blinked a few times, then nodded. He cleared his throat before speaking. “May I ask for your help with something?”

“Of course!” she assured, smoothing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I am, well…” he said uncomfortably, unconsciously mimicking Charlene’s movements and running a hand through his own hair, “I am making Dean a present.”

“Are you now?”

“Yes. I want to do something nice for him because… I am not sure how to put this. We have not been--”

“Fuckin’?” she interrupted impishly.

He cleared his throat. “I was going to say ‘intimate’.”

“Why on earth not?” she asked, low voice tinged with incredulousness. “You slayed him, Castiel! I know you did. He’s yours now, undoubtedly.”

He narrowed his eyes, a shadow of confusion passing over his face for the briefest of moments. “For the same reason you haven’t been intimate with Sam.”

Her face slackened and fell.  “Castiel, don’t distance yourself from Dean on my acc--”

“Please do not feel sorry, Charlene,” he tried to reassure. “You have suffered enough. Are suffering. It feels wrong to take joy while you struggle.”

“Cas, I’ll be fine!” she insisted with a quaver that betrayed her. She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, and picked off an errant, sandy hair that had clung to him.

“With time, I am certain,” he replied steadily. “But I ask again: Will you help me?”

She exhaled softly through her nose. “Okay, Cas. What's this present you speak of?”

“I want to make him a mixed tape.” 

Her nose crinkled as she smiled. “You mean ‘mix tape’?” she corrected.

“Yes, that,” he gravelled in faux annoyance.

“I’m feelin’ better already, Castiel,” she said, proud smile spreading on her face. 

She followed him down the hall to his room. He quietly opened the door and held it for her, then closed it softly behind them. He had chosen a room near Charlene’s at the end of the hall, out of the way. He wanted to be unobtrusive, to have space to think. The room was sparsely furnished; there was a full sized brass bed with a thin mattress, a small chest of drawers and a wardrobe, a nightstand, and a single metal folding chair. The nightstand was piled high with books, and on the dresser was a small, black cassette player with an assortment of tapes.

Charlene crawled onto the bed and sat cross legged, leaning up against the wall. She patted the mattress with her hand, an invitation for Castiel to join her. He complied, sitting on the other side of the bed, pulling his own legs up to sit across from her. She gave a broad smile, and he flickered a small one in return.

“So,” she began, “how can I help you?”

Castiel cleared his throat and looked past her, at the wall behind her. “I have feelings I wish to articulate, but I do not have the background knowledge required to choose the appropriate music. I have been listening to some of Dean’s tapes, ones I know he appreciates, as well as the tape he made me, over and over for inspiration.” His eyes flickered to meet Charlene’s, but then darted back to the wall. He absently fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt as he flexed his jaw. “I worry that I lack the fundamental character traits required to compose an emotionally impactful narrative using the artistic works of others.”

Charlene couldn’t hold back a chuckle, and Castiel frowned in response. He tilted his head, brows furrowed in consternation. 

“Does my inability to properly express emotions amuse you?” he asked, low voice tinged with frustration.

“Aww, Castiel,” she replied soothingly, “you express your emotions just fine. You’re just overthinking! You want to make this perfect thing, something that conveys every thought and feeling you’re experiencing, but I’m sorry… that ain’t gonna happen.”

He blinked, and she continued.

“You need to pick one idea, one theme. Then you work from there.” She reached over and rested her hand on his knee, securing his attention. “You can make him many tapes, and each one can be special. Different. Just pick a focus for this one.”

“I suppose…” he started, “that I would like to tell the story of us meeting. Of our time together. I waited so long, millennia, for something to fill a void that I did not realize was there until I met Dean.” He shrugged. “He entered my life, and suddenly everything changed. That is where my journey really began.”

“To be fair, I think you are the one who entered his life, quite dramatically I might add.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“And you have sacrificed yourself for him, again and again.”

A flush crept across Castiel’s cheeks as he looked down at his lap. “I have made many mistakes,” he said solemnly.

“Who hasn’t?”

“Well, he is here now, we are together. Now that the void is filled I am regretful that I waited so long to take the necessary actions to fill it. I am very grateful for Dean and his love.”

Charlene bounced up and down excitedly, jostling Castiel along with her, and he couldn’t help but smile. “That's perfect! Two badasses colliding, struggling through strife, and ending up together. We can work with that!”

“I do not wish to make him sad, and this sounds like an angsty endeavor,” worried the angel.

“I think it will be a sad tape,” she agreed, “but then not. Just like you and Dean. Angry, sad, but then not.”

“So, you will help?” Castiel’s voice was hopeful.

She nodded emphatically. “Yes, but I’ll need some supplies. From my apartment.” She climbed off the bed. “Let me just grab some clothes. You should…” she eyed him up and down, “probably put some pants on.”


	2. Little Did He Know

Sam was not asleep. He sat upright in bed, his small room made all the smaller by the piles of books that covered every available surface. The overhead light was off, but his bedside lamp cast a beam of sickly yellow across his lap and over the worn and faded pages of the book he held. The alarm clock softly ticking away on the nightstand read 3:34AM, but Sam hadn’t bothered looking at it for hours. 

His shoulders were hunched, his brows furrowed. He pursed his lips in thought as he read page after page, looking for he knew not what. Charlene had been staying with them for nearly a week, relegating herself mostly to her room. She’d come out to eat, was smiling and even jovial at times, and affectionate toward him. She’d run her graceful fingers across his shoulders, press her cheek to his. She was gracious, she was grateful, but she was remarkedly absent. Her open ebullience was gone, as if a large steel door had been slammed shut leaving him alone on the other side enveloped only in its echo. He didn’t know what else he could expect considering the circumstances, but he felt deep down that she needed help; she just wasn’t asking for it, at least not from him. He resolved instead to study, to see if he could find out something, anything about what had happened to her, to her mother. Who was Lyssa? Why did she want Charlene?

She was unique somehow, a destined vessel of some kind, but different from him or Dean. The magic they were dealing with was not celestial or demonic in nature, and yet there was something about her that was more like Castiel than not. She was spending more time with him than either of the brothers, and Sam was okay with it; he trusted her to do what she needed to do for herself. That knowledge, however, didn’t stop him from missing her terribly. He let his eyelids flutter closed and envisioned the sparkle in her eyes, dim but still there. He could imagine her scent, a fragrance of lavender and sweet mint, somehow simultaneously soothing yet invigorating. He smiled at the remembrance of her raven hair falling into her eyes, tickling his nose. He could almost feel her, a solid corporeality straddling him, strong fingers running up through his hair and massaging the base of his skull. Her low voice strummed a note through the back of his mind, tickling memories that he’d been trying not to dwell on out of respect for her and her process. He remembered what she’d said to him, what she’d read to him when they’d kissed in her apartment that fateful night. 

_ On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks-accidentally-and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive. _

Sam knew that both he and Charlene were on the same quest for the abnormal; for Charlene, Sam’s life was the abnormal, but to Sam it was the same old grind. Charlene represented something unique, something bright that cast a fresh light over everything he knew. She stung him with perspective and he relished the pain that came with it. He’d spent so much time saving humanity that he’d forgotten what it meant to be a part of it. He thought meeting her would usher in a new era, the arrival of light-heartedness and the opportunity to breathe. Little did he know that life would loop right back around again, and while she was the one who did the saving, he couldn’t help but feel disappointment. He was naive to think he’d be able to get off the Winchester carousel long enough to hit the stop button.

His eyes fluttered open and he slammed the book shut, tossing it to one side on the bed. It was Hesiod’s  _ Theogeny _ , a book from the eighth century B.C.E. outlining the genesis of the Greek pantheon. It was a rudimentary starting place, but they had not yet been back to Pearl’s house to go through her own exhaustive research. Sam had wanted to, and had mentioned it briefly to Charlene, but the look of sorrow in her eyes froze him to the core and he immediately dropped the subject. For now, they had to make do with the Men of Letters’ existing research and the wonders of the internet.

Sam was greatly surprised when he began his research to find a dearth of information on Greek mythology. It seemed that the Men of Letters devoted very little of its energies to the subject. According to journals he’d found, many instances of Greek mysticism had been investigated and debunked, attributed to either celestial or demonic forces, or shown to be hoaxes or stories designed to manipulate and mislead the public. The Greek and then later Roman pantheons were in direct conflict with the established monotheistic paradigm. Clearly, the Men of Letters did not know everything, because he’d seen what Lyssa could do, what Charlene did. He saw what happened to Dean, to Castiel. Whatever this force was, it was real. It was dangerous. It took Castiel and Charlene together to beat it back. It wanted her, and he needed to know why. 

He turned toward the pile of books on his nightstand and slid one out from the middle of the stack. It was Euripides’  _ Madness of Heracles,  _ which he knew from internet research directly referenced Lyssa. He flipped to a section he had bookmarked earlier. The play explained that Lyssa had been tasked by Hera to inflict madness upon Heracles, causing him to murder his family, but to Sam’s surprise she resisted the request:

> _ Of noble parents was I born, the daughter of Nyx, sprung from the blood of Ouranos; and these prerogatives I hold, not to use them in anger against friends, nor do I have any joy in visiting the homes of men; and I wish to counsel Hera, before I see her err… This man, against whose house you are sending me, has made himself a name alike in heaven and earth; for, after taming pathless wilds and raging sea, he by his single might raised up again the honors of the gods when sinking before man's impiety... wherefore I counsel you, do not wish him dire mishaps. _

This was a depiction of a calm and rational being, fully aware of her own capabilities and with enough self-possession to argue with the wife of Zeus. If Euripides’ characterization was accurate, and she was truly to blame for the tragedies that had befallen them, then there had to be a truly compelling reason for her interference. It was Pearl who was the vengeful one, the power hungry one, and Charlene was able to harness Lyssa’s madness to strike her down. It was almost as if Lyssa was there to protect Charlene, not consume her.

He threw that book aside as well, and ran his long fingers through his hair in frustration. He finally did look at the clock, and saw that it was well after four in the morning. 

“No rest for the wicked,” he mumbled under his breath as he tossed the covers aside and slid out of bed. He decided to just get up, perhaps make some coffee and sneak into the Nexis Lexis to see if he could dig up some academic research online. He slid into his robe and quietly opened the bedroom door so as to avoid waking the others. He stuck his head out and was surprised to see Castiel and Charlene standing at the end of the hall, their backs toward him. Castiel was wearing a pair of Dean’s jeans and his suit jacket, and Charlene was clad in a hoodie, a pair of skinny red and black plaid pants, and lace-up combat boots. The angel took Charlene by the hand, and with a soft whoosh the pair of them vanished under the dim, buzzing light of the hallway. 

“Well, fuck,” Sam muttered.


	3. Well-Adjusted

Dean laid awake in bed, staring upward at the scorched ceiling, outlining again and again with his eyes the shape of two men, a pair of huge wings outstretched on either side of them. He alternatingly smiled and frowned, heart swelling with wistfulness then wonder on every other beat. He missed Castiel; his angel who had disappeared again, albeit for completely understandable reasons. When he’d asked Dean for a room of his own, he thought he was joking at first. They had finally figured their shit out, could finally be together, but then Castiel wanted to put literal walls and doors between them.

He’d asked the day they had all returned to the bunker. Everyone was seemingly positive considering the circumstances, but just below the surface Dean could detect a distinct unsettled feeling. After dinner, Sam saw Charlene to her room, and Dean took Castiel’s hand and led him into his own. He’d pushed Castiel up against the door and went to relieve him of his coat when the angel caught his hand and stopped him.

“Dean,” Castiel started, voice gruff and sad, “I do love you, you know that, right?”

“Of course, angel,” Dean said breathlessly, pulling back just enough to get lost in his thoughtful eyes. “I love you, too.”

“Then please grant me this one favor,” he gravelled softly.

“Anything.”

“I wish for my own room.”

Dean blinked, and didn’t speak for a moment. 

Castiel continued. “I have offended you.”

“No, no, Cas,” Dean reassured, “I just… we just…”

“I just need a little space,” he interrupted, attempting to soothe Dean’s wounded pride. “Not from you per se, but from everything. The last twenty-four hours have been very… taxing. I need to take care of myself. Then I can take care of you.”

“Let  _ me  _ take care of you, Cas!” said Dean, a little too eagerly, a little too desperately. “I’ll do everything, anything you need me to do.”

Castiel gave a small, sad smile. “I just told you what I need you to do.” 

Dean gave a small nod and fought back an urge to pout. “Whatever you need, babe.”

Castiel smiled and embraced him, planting a soft, warm kiss next to his ear. “I like it when you call me that,” he whispered.

Dean smiled. “Good,” he whispered right back. “I don’t plan to stop anytime soon.”

They hadn’t been intimate, really intimate, since returning from Pearl’s house. Sure, they’d been physical, affectionate touches in passing, holding hands under the table. When no one was around, they’d come in close and embrace one another. Castiel would rest his face in the hollow of Dean’s collarbone, and Dean would plant little kisses into his hair. They would stand there like that for long stretches of time, inhaling one another, taking respite from the dark and dreary world they now inhabited. However, when Dean would move his hands lower, or press a kiss in with too much fervor, he could feel his angel bristle. He would ignite with a fuzz of excited static that he would immediately suppress with a sharp exhalation, and then he’d look into Dean’s eyes with his own sorrowful wells of bottomless blue. His angel was sad, sad for Charlene. Dean knew they shared some kind of connection, and while it was not the profound bond he and Castiel had, it was equally valid and decidedly different. 

He successfully convinced Castiel to accept an offer of more comfortable clothing, t-shirts and jeans that had fit Dean well a decade ago but were a little snug now. Castiel took them with a blush that warmed Dean from the inside out. To Dean’s dismay, Castiel so far hadn’t taken to any of the clothes, hadn’t even tried them on as far as he knew. He’d wanted to ask him about it, but it felt silly. Needy.

_ I’m not that guy, remember? _

He wished for the means to take Castiel out into the world, to be the dorky guy sitting in the boyfriend chair while Cas awkwardly modeled outfits. It was a small, silly want, something he'd never considered possible until a week ago. There were so many possibilities now; he just needed to wait. Unfortunately, one thing that hadn't changed was Dean's lack of patience. Castiel was more than just a soldier of God. He was his own person now, with his own room, and as far as Dean was concerned, he ought to have his own clothes too, dammit.

Dean resolved to give Castiel the space he needed and went to work doing something productive to keep himself occupied, something he thought would help Charlene and therefore Castiel. He spent all of his free time in the garage, but rather than work on repairing Baby’s totaled engine, he focused his efforts on fixing the damage done to Charlene’s Camaro, her Blue Angel. He worked in secrecy; his intentions known only to Sam. When he’d told Sam what he wanted to do, tears sprang to the corners of his brother’s eyes. The younger Winchester said nothing, but instead merely embraced his brother, shook him by the shoulders gently with a happy wince, and then walked away. 

He had the tools required for the body work, but not the paint or window glass. Once he had fixed the drive train and the alignment, he repaired the body damage the best he could and had Sam sneak him the key so he could drive it into the city. There was a guy he knew who owed him a favor due to a ghost-related muffler incident Dean had helped out with a few years back. He removed the raven tchotchke from the dashboard and put it in the glove compartment in case Charlene wanted to keep it. By the end of the day, the Camaro was as good as new, better ever with a complete detailing and a dangly pine tree air freshener that Dean had picked out himself. Dean even had the guy weld a plate to cover up the rusted hole in the backseat and installed new carpeting. He took the cinder block out of the backseat but left Charlene’s books. Dean admired the tough little car; it had grit and zip and was very much Charlene’s. 

Dean was anxious as he laid in bed; he’d planned to unveil the new and improved Camaro in the morning. It was his hope that it would alleviate some of the sadness that saturated the bunker, bring his angel back to him if only a little. He glanced at his cellphone. 4:50AM, it read.

“Close enough,” he mumbled, groaning softly as he swung his legs onto the floor. He shrugged on his robe, pocketed the phone, and stumbled out into the hall where he was hit with the unmistakable scent of the strong coffee his brother infamously brewed. He shuffled to the kitchen, where he saw Sam sitting at the table, sipping from a mug while reading on his laptop. Sam looked up, made eye contact, and then quickly looked away again.

“Uh, hi,” he muttered uncomfortably.

“What?” asked Dean gruffly. He knew his brother well enough to know when something fishy was going on.

“Um, nothing. Just, uh, doing some research on Lyssa.”

“Sam.”

“What?”

“Sam,” he said with increased insistence.

Sam cleared his throat. “I hoped you’d sleep a while longer. I didn’t want to have this conversation.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “And what conversation would that be?”

“The conversation where I have to explain that Charlene and Castiel vanished from the hallway ten minutes ago without warning or leaving a note.” He furrowed his brow and sighed.

“Ah,” said Dean, flatly. He turned toward the counter and snatched a mug from the drainboard, filled it to the brim with coffee, and took a scalding sip.

“Ah? Is that all you’re going to say?” poked Sam.

Dean whipped his head around and snapped, “and what exactly  _ should  _ I say, Sammy?”

“I’unno,” his brother mumbled. “I know something is up with you and Cas, but you aren’t talking to me about it.”

“I don't think there's anything to talk about,” Dean admitted with a shrug. “He said he needed space. I'm giving him space.”

“That's very… well-adjusted of you,” he said with a raised eyebrow. 

“And I take it you find that surprising?” Dean chuffed. “I appreciate your vote of confidence!”

“So, everything is fine then?”

“No! Everything's  _ not _ fine!” Dean exclaimed, sloshing his coffee in frustration. “Everything sucks, man! Castiel is miserable and has spent the last week hiding away with your girlfriend, who is also, by the way, miserable!” He slammed the mug down on the counter. “You and me? We've been sidelined! Taken out of a game we didn't know we were playing! Give me a monster to gank, a vamp to slay! Something to punch! I can handle that!” He sighed, then leaned back against the counter as he looked to the ceiling. “Sammy, how is this more difficult than fighting demons?”

Sam gave a half smile and shrugged. “Technically, I think we still  _ are _ fighting demons.”

Dean said nothing for a moment, then, “I see what you did there.”

“Pretty clever, eh?”

“You'd like to think that.”

“Drink some more coffee and help me with this,” Sam said, changing the subject. 

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, though he was glad for the distraction. He poured himself some more coffee and fought the urge to pray, but then he felt his cell phone vibrate. 


	4. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically unapologetic slapstick.

Charlene felt giddy as she phased through the bright static with Castiel; the previously jarring mode of transportation was now much more an exhilarating zip that caused her limbs to burn with excitement. With a whump, she found herself hand in hand with Castiel in the darkened parking lot of Dante’s, facing her apartment building. She fished her keys from her pocket and jogged up to the front door, and Castiel followed close behind. She unlocked the door and turned to hold it open for Castiel. She looked him over as he nodded gratefully. He’d dressed himself, pulling on a pair of tight fitting jeans that Dean had given him, as well as his own slip on boots. He still wore the Led Zeppelin tee, but over it he’d thrown on one of Dean's old chambray shirts, unbuttoned. He finished the look with his charcoal blazer. His hair was disheveled, and he had a few days worth of stubble gracing his sharp jaw up toward his high cheekbones. He reminded her of someone, possibly from television? Maybe a book. 

“Cas, you look great,” she smiled as he walked through the doorway.

“I do?” he asked, blue eyes flashing, genuinely pleased by the comment.

She let the door close behind them and quietly headed up the stairs, whispering back to him. “Hell yeah, you do. All the guys in Seattle? They dress just like that. You’re a trendy dude, Cas.”

“I am just wearing half my clothing, half Dean’s clothing,” he pondered in a whisper tone.

They reached the top of the stairs and Charlene opened the apartment door. “Well, now it's one hundred percent your clothing, and it suits you nicely.” She pushed open the door and walked inside, and Castiel closed it behind them.

They were immediately hit by an unpleasant odor, a stink of rotting food and unattended garbage. Charlene wrinkled her nose in distaste. 

“Ugh, Castiel, I’m so sorry, I haven’t taken the garbage out for over a week, now. There must be spoiled food in the fridge…” she trailed off as she turned her gaze onto Castiel, who appeared not to have heard a word she’d said. He was miles away, slowly pacing around the small living room, staring at the numerous shelves filled with countless books. She realized that this was the first time Castiel had actually been in her apartment. A week previous he had brought her here to pick up some belongings, but had respectfully waited outside. He was seeing her journey for the very first time, and with that realization she felt a flare of panic ignite in her chest searing away the capacity for rational thought. Her mind could only process a single, throbbing word.  _ Run. Run. Run. _

“Curious,” he mumbled to himself. He turned suddenly, finally remembering she was there, and tilted his head at her. “In some ways, you really are her daughter, aren’t you?”

She pressed her lips together into a fine, white line. She felt her eyes sting, and she shook away the threat of tears with a small wag of her head. She looked past Castiel, out the small window into the darkness beyond, and kept staring as Castiel took small, careful steps toward her. 

“Your journey is a different one, you know that, right?” His voice was soft, yielding as he approached. “You may have ended up in the same place, but you took an entirely different route. It is the journey that defines you, not the destination.” He stood directly in front of her by then, but she still refused to make eye contact. Castiel could see that she’d lost the battle with her tears, and they trickled victoriously down her face. Castiel brushed an errant strand of her hair behind her ear and then swiped a thumb under her eye. It was that intimate act that brought her eyes to meet his. She winced and tilted her head. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and gave her a small smile. “I believe this is what Sam was referring to,” he said, gesturing around the room with his free hand.

Charlene sniffed and cracked a smile. “Wait, what did he tell you, Cas?”

Castiel busted out the finger quotes. “He said you had a ‘sexy book collection’ and Dean asked him if it gave him an “inferiority boner’, to which Sam replied ‘in all the best ways’.”

Charlene squawked with laughter, no longer caught up in the smell or the flight response or the crushing guilt over her actions. “He’d probably kill you for repeating that, you know that, right?”

“If he did not want it to be public knowledge, then he should not have said it publicly.”

“I deeply appreciate your straightforward, linear thinking, Castiel.” 

“I am glad someone does.” 

“My thinking, currently, is that I need to take out the trash,” she grumbled. She wandered over to the fridge and opened the door, face pinched in repugnance. She pulled out a barely recognizable bundle of celery, a carton of milk, and something that might have been a tomato at some point but was now a plastic bag filled with orange and green mush. She tossed the items in the garbage can, yanked the bag out by the drawstring, and headed for the door. “I’ll be right back, Cas,” she reassured, holding the bag at arm’s length. With a thump of the door, she was gone.

Castiel wandered around the room in her absence. He noted that books had been removed and dropped on the floor, paperwork as well. In their haste, the brothers had been careless going through her belongings. Though only recently did Castiel have belongings of his own, he realized that such an intrusion, regardless of good intentions, must feel like a violation. He leaned over to pick up one of the books, and it fell open in his hands. Contained within were Pearl’s drawings of Lyssa and the rite, haunting images of trees and crows that sent Castiel’s thoughts back through memories of when he was locked away in his own mind, only his madness to keep him company. He’d been lost, hopeless, and then Dean arrived to save him. 

He felt a lump rise in his throat that he couldn’t swallow. He’d pushed Dean away then, unable to confirm that it was even really him. He’d stayed, though, despite it, despite the fact that they were certain to die and be separated forever. Dean had reminded Castiel of who he really was, who he could be, and did it all with his love. The love of one human man saved them both. And now there he was once more, pushing Dean away yet again.

He closed the journal and set it on the side table, then reached into his pocket. Charlene came back in through the door as Castiel pulled out his phone and swiped the screen awake.

“You texting him?” she asked gently.

“How did you know?” he said, not looking up from the phone.

“I’m surprised you didn’t do it earlier is all.”

Castiel flashed a tiny smile as he typed.

_ I am with Charlene. _

_ I am fine. We are fine. _

_ Be home soon. _

He paused. Then finally,

_ I miss you. _

He looked up at Charlene and slid his phone back into his pocket. “Okay, I am ready,” he said. “What do we need?”

She nodded, and started rummaging through books and papers to produce a laptop. “This,” she said, thrusting the computer into Castiel’s arms. He balanced it gingerly on his forearms as Charlene tugged the charging cable out from under the futon. She piled the coiled cord on top of the laptop, then dug around until she produced an auxiliary cable which she wadded up and stuck on the pile as well. Castiel’s eyes followed her around the room, and something in him lightened. Her face was scrunched up in concentration; she was focused with a renewed purpose. She was happy, happy to be of use, happy to help. Castiel empathized immensely.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a box of cassette tapes, which she added to the load, as well as a quad-rule notebook, a fist full of fine-tip Sharpies, and three books. Castiel stood stoically, comically overloaded with supplies as Charlene pensively surveyed the room, chin in hand. 

“Ah!” she exclaimed, turning and heading into the kitchen. She opened a drawer and shoved something into the pocket of her hoodie, then reached into the cupboard to produce a partially consumed box of stale red liquorice, which she tossed on for good measure. She threw open the door to the fridge and pulled out a four-pack of tall yellow cans that Castiel eyed suspiciously over the top of his haul.

“It’s caffeine, Cas, not plutonium,” she snarked as she added them to the pile.

“I think plutonium is actually more atomically stable,” chided the angel as he shifted to accommodate its weight.

“Let’s hope so, because I intend to get wrecked on it until the deed is done. If I run out, I’m sending you out to the Gas’n’Sip for more.”

Castiel rolled his eyes.

“You know, Castiel, you roll your eyes so hard they make a sound,” she smirked. “It’s like a squeaky little rattle.”

“I am quite certain only angels can hear the sound eyes make when they roll,” he replied flatly, “and it is much more a wet, grating noise.”

Charlene wrinkled her nose. “That’s… horrifying.”

“Be glad you do not have to hear it.”

She narrowed her eyes and smiled. “I think that’ll do it,” she said with a nod. Suddenly, she froze. “Wait! One more thing!” She ran down the hall to the small bedroom full of books and came back with a fist full of fabric, which she threw on the pile as well. 

Castiel looked down and went rigid. She had tossed several pairs of underwear on top of the liquorice and energy drinks and cables. His eyes were wide under his furrowed brow but then narrowed as Charlene began to cackle.

“I’m out of clean underwear, Cas!” she laughed. “I can put them in a bag if you want; didn’t think you’d be one to wig out over a few pairs of panties!”

The angel cleared his throat. “I am fine. It just… took me by surprise.” Then he gave a small smile.

“Okay, angel, let’s voip on back. Boys are probably missing us by now.”

He nodded, and she placed her hand on his elbow. Just as they were about to fly off, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, startling him. In the span of less than a second he jerked away from her, nearly losing his hold on the precariously balanced pile of supplies, and poofed away. Charlene stood in her living room, blinking in confusion, staring at the space that used to be filled with Castiel but was suddenly empty. She patted herself down and realized that her phone was back at the bunker.

“Well ain’t that a helluva thing?” she muttered to herself.

In the kitchen, Dean finished replying to Castiel’s text and leaned over his little brother who sat at the table, skimming a research paper online on the cultural significance of the Roman god Uranus. Dean had been sniggering at the material, and Sam kept looking back and shooting angry looks of  _ Can you not? _ his brother’s way. Suddenly before them appeared a flustered looking Castiel barely holding a precarious pile of various nerd sundries. The angel’s eyes flew around the room as he fell backwards onto his rear end in an attempt to avoid dropping his cargo, but the candy, beverages, pens, and panties still managed to escape to the floor.

All three men froze, mouths slightly agape, eyes blinking out their thoughts. Dean tilted his head as he examined Castiel, eyes narrowing upon reaching the assorted undergarments that were tangled in the cords, draped over his arm, and laying on the ground around him.

“...Cas?” said Sam, breaking the awkward silence. “Uh… where’s Charlene?”

Castiel whipped his head around, and then snapped his attention back to Dean. He tried to stand, but couldn’t with his arms full, so instead he simply said, “Excuse me,” then vanished. The computer and cords clattered to the floor. The angel was gone again.

Charlene stood with her hands on her hips, looking up to the ceiling with impatience. Just then, Castiel appeared again beside her, looking slightly winded and very dazed. 

“Took you long enough,” she playfully grumbled. He gave another wet grinding of the eyes, took her by the arm, and with a whoosh they found themselves back in the kitchen of the bunker, face to face with Dean and Sam who still hadn’t managed to close their mouths.

Charlene gave the pile of her belongings a cursory glance and then awkwardly snatched up her underwear from the floor with a wicked grin on  her face. 

“Howdy, boys!” she exclaimed, tossing a pair of Wonder Woman briefs at Sam's face. “I brought you a present!”


	5. Boyfriend-ing

“What the hell, Cas?” scolded Dean as the angel knelt down to pick up Charlene’s belongings. Castiel looked up at him, huge blue eyes simultaneously ponderous and anxious. He handed the computer up to Charlene who took it with a mischievous smile. The angel scooped up the drinks, cords, and other sundries, carefully rose to standing, and blinked at Dean silently.

Finally, Charlene spoke. “We’re on a secret mission,” she said slyly. 

Sam smiled, holding the underwear out to her on one finger.

“That was a gift, Sam,” she chided. “Don’t be rude.”

Dean whipped his head toward his brother and raised an eyebrow, then returned his gaze to Castiel. He cleared his throat and smiled weakly. “Speaking of gifts, now that I have you two here, there is, uh, something I wanted to show you--”

“My apologies, Dean, but your research findings can wait,” said Castiel, trademark gruffness betrayed by a smirk. With that, he walked up to Dean, awkwardly shifted his supplies to one arm and pressed them up to his chin for support. He took his free hand and gently poked Dean's nose. 

“Boop!” blurted Charlene, who snorted in amusement and then gave a small parting wave. The two of them headed down the hall to the bedrooms, and Dean could hear Charlene laughing.

Sam watched them leave, arms crossed over his chest, half-smile curling on his face. “I think she’s good for him,” he mused.

Dean spun around to face his brother. “Good for him?!” he asked incredulously.

Sam shrugged. “Did you see how he was dressed? He looked like an actual person!”

Dean felt a flare of something undefinable darken his cheeks. “He’s always been an actual person!”

“I mean, he looked like his  _ own  _ person,” clarified Sam. “Not somebody playing dress-up. He looked… comfortable. I mean, he booped you.”

“So?”

“That’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him all week,” Sam explained. “Possibly ever.” 

Dean sighed. He knew Sam was right. Ever since Charlene came into their lives things had been different. Castiel had been different.

“I finished the car,” Dean gravelled at the floor. He looked up to his brother, normally lively eyes glassy and tired. 

Sam’s eyes blew wide as he jammed the underwear in his robe pocket. “Really?! Can I see?!”

Dean chuckled. “Well at least  _ someone  _ is excited.”

“Seriously, dude, I didn't think you'd have it fixed so fast!” Sam hustled past in slippered feet to the stairs going to the garage. He skidded to a stop and whipped alone upon realizing he was unaccompanied. Dean stood, impassive, eyes far away. 

“Yo, Dean? You coming?”

Dean snapped himself out of his daze and followed his brother to the garage. Sam excitedly tossed over the door and hustled inside, then froze up reaching the bottom of the steps.

“Dean!” he exclaimed, “It’s incredible!” and indeed it was. It was almost better than new, powder blue paint job gleaming in the overhead lighting, all evidence of the collision completely erased by Dean’s hard work. Sam paced around the car, peering through the new windows, unable to find any evidence of the horrors it had been subjected to.

“Dean, thank you for this,” said the younger Winchester, softly, eyes soft and grateful. 

Dean waited a beat before replying. “I'm bad at this,” he said, low voice etched with disappointment. 

Sam stepped back toward his brother hesitantly, searching for pitfalls and tripwires. “At what?”

“I dunno,” he muttered. “Relationships? Boyfriend…ing? Being supportive? Cas is suffering, Charlene is miserable, and all I can think about is me. What I want. What I need.” He ran a hand through his hair and seemingly forgot about it, fingers absently exerting pressure against the base of his skull. “You were right when you said he seemed relaxed. My response?”

“Jealousy,” offered Sam with a sympathetic exhalation. 

“Exactly. I'm a dick.” He spoke slower as his eyes darkened. “That smile on his face? I wanted to be the reason for that. It’s not good enough that he looks happy. I need him to be happy about us. About me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’re a dumbass.’

Dean winced at the slight, “Sam, you don’t ev--”

“I mean it, Dean!” he interrupted. “You’re an idiot! You really think he’s only happy because of Charlene? Really?! He’s been over the goddamned moon for you for years,  _ years _ , and how that he finally has you, you think he’s just like,” he dropped his voice to a flat gravel, “‘Meh, that Dean guy is pretty okay I guess’?” He shook his head in disgust. “You really  _ do  _ suck at ‘boyfriend-ing’, just not in the way you think.”

Dean gave a disatisfied tisk as he eyed the floor. “So what the hell do I do?”

“You wait, dude.”

“I have been.”

“Wait longer.”

Dean looked up, green eyes lusterless. “How long?” he croaked.

“As long as you need to,” he said as a twitch of sympathy tensed his face. “Dude, you waited eight years. What’s a week or two gonna do?”

Dean’s face and tone dimmed, darkened. “Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

Sam rubbed his elbow absently. “What do you mean?”

“I see you sitting around, twelve hours a day, like you’re cramming for the Greek Demon Bar Exam. How far have you gotten? What have you learned? I’m guessing it’s a whole lotta squat!”

Sam shot his brother a defensive look. “Are you seriously upset that I’m trying to--”

“No, I’m not upset about you trying to help. I’m just wondering where you get off taking the high road when I know you feel the exact same way I do! You’re throwing yourself into what is now clearly a fruitless search for information that is most definitely not in this bunker.” He walked over to the door and threw it open. “There is one place that might have the information we need, and we haven’t gone there because she,” he pointed down the hall, “doesn’t want us to, and so we just get to--”

“Wait.”

Dean took a breath, then looked up at his brother with sympathy. “Yeah. We wait. She’s with Cas, and we’re alone. That,” he pointed back down the hall, “is our one chance to have something. Something more than all this shit,” he gestured around the room, arms spread wide. “If I’m the impatient one, then I think that makes  _ you  _ the dumbass.”

Sam ran his hand through his hair and sighed through his nose, jaw muscles flexing as he looked up in thought. “We really do need to go to Pearl’s house, don’t we?”

Dean pursed his lips and nodded slowly, “that we do.”

“I really, really don’t want to do that without her permission,” he said, wincing at the hypothetical.

“Then get her permission.”

“Dean, if you’d have seen her face when I asked…”

“I’ll ask Cas to talk to her then,” he shrugged with a self-pitying grimace. “That is, if I can pry them apart long enough to get a word in.”

“Dude.”

Dean redirected. “I’mma make some breakfast. Food, then talk. Capiche?”

Sam’s mouth momentarily suggested a smile. “Food sounds great,” he replied. “And more coffee.”

“Comin’ right up!” exclaimed Dean with as much faux enthusiasm as he could muster. It was five o’clock in the morning after all. 


	6. Whisper Tales of Gore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby's first cigarette.

Castiel sat on the edge of Charlene’s bed, next to the pile of her belongings they had somewhat successfully brought back from her apartment. He had removed his jacket and rolled his sleeves up like he’d seen Dean do countless times. He watched as Charlene paced back and forth, drink in hand, the now nearly empty can of taurine-infused yellow-flavored energy beverage flashing in the dim room lighting. 

“I think the first thing we need,” she said seemingly to herself, “is a list of the major life events that have occurred since meeting Dean. Like, the big stuff.” She pivoted and headed the other direction. “Things that changed you. Him. Both of you.”

“Could you further define ‘change’?” Castiel asked, nervousness taking a backseat to amusement. Charlene was excited, focused. Any self-consciousness he felt earlier had been obliterated by the woman’s endearing self-possession.

“Well, deaths are a good start; I’m guessing you’ve both had your fair share of those.”

The angel laughed bleakly. “I think I could make a whole tape just about the deaths. There have been more than enough.”

“Well, the deathiest deaths, then?” She turned to him and grimaced. “Your deaths, at least the ones that directly pertain to Dean?”

“Wow,  _ this  _ is angsty.”

She clanked the can down on the nightstand and turned toward him, clasping his shoulder with one hand. “You need the dark,” she said with emphasis. “You can’t have the light without it.”

He nodded solemnly. “I understand.”  
She released him and smiled. “I told you Sam exposition-dumped all over me before, but that was _his_ perspective of _his_ life. I need something similar from you.”

Castiel carefully scrutinized his lap. “I am not sure how to even begin. No one has asked me about my life before. My journey.”

Charlene exhaled softly with a visible slump. Castiel looked up to see the corners of her mouth downturned in a way that looked unnatural on her face, as if she’d never done it before. “Their loss,” she said softly. Suddenly, she straightened up and leaned past Castiel to retrieve the quad ruled notebook and a pen from the bed. She flipped it open to the first page and began scrawling with a precise, slicing script.  _ For Dean. _

She leaned up against the dresser and put the pen to her chin. “Okay, Cas, let’s begin at the beginning. How did you meet?”

He blinked slowly at her and didn’t speak for a moment. Then he began, voice low, purposeful, almost proud. “It was commanded of me. Heaven needed Dean. He broke the first seal of Lucifer’s cage, and he was the only one could prevent the Apocalypse. I was sent into hostile territory as a Warrior of God. I flew through hell fire and the sound of millions of souls screaming in agony. I wrestled a knife from his hands, wrapped my grace around his soul, and dragged him from Perdition.”

Charlene’s mouth hung open as she stared at Castiel through dark lashes. “Holy shit.”

His eyes were a clear, ponderous blue, salt spray on the wind. “That's why my wings are black,” he added softly. “Scorched by the fires of Hell.”

Her breath caught in her chest and ached for the angel. She blinked rapidly and shook her head, cheeks flushed, then scratched something down in the notebook.  _ Complete and total badass. _

“Just so you know, you’re going to have to go into great detail later regarding the fact that you have  _ actual fucking wings _ , okay?,” she said, voice edged with something he could not place. She stuck the pen in the book and tossed it on the dresser, then dug into her pockets to produce a white and blue packet of cigarettes and a lighter with a picture of a groundhog on it. She slid one out with practiced fingers and brought it to her lips. Castiel tilted his head curiously at her and furrowed his brow.

“I was not aware that you smoked,” he said, rough voice taking on a tone of paternal disappointment.

She chuckled, taking the unlit cigarette away from her lips to respond. “I don’t, really. I save it in case of emergency creative endeavors regarding angels and true love and the fucking apocalypse.”

The angel’s soft lips twitched into a smile and he gave a shy shrug.

“Do you mind?”

“No, I suppose not.”

With that, she slotted the cigarette between her lips and lit it, shielding it from the wind out of habit. She took a deep drag, then pulled it away between two fingers. She leaned back into the dresser and exhaled upward, blowing a perfect and practiced smoke ring. Tendrils of white climbed upwards from her fingertips as a lazy smile opened across her face. She rolled her head back toward Castiel, who smiled.

“You ever smoke, Cas?” 

“No.”

“Never? Why not? And don’t start rattling off health concerns, because I’m pretty sure they don’t apply to you.”

“It has never… come up. I do not eat or drink.”

“You’ve never drank? Alcohol?”

“I have had alcohol. But it takes quite a bit to have any effect on me.”

“How much is quite a bit?” she asked as she took another drag, this time exhaling normally.

“I drank a liquor store once,” he mused. 

She raised an eyebrow.

“To be fair, I thought the world was ending,” he said, monotone betrayed by a hint of wry amusement.

Charlene walked to the nightstand and ashed into the empty drink can, then crossed her other arm over her stomach. “You wanna try it?”

He eyed the cigarette warily. “I believe this is what the public service announcements refer to as ‘peer pressure’.”

“That is exactly what this is,” she said, extending the cigarette toward the angel.

Castiel reached up hesitantly from his seat on the bed and took the cigarette awkwardly, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. He haltingly brought it up to his lips but she stopped him.

“No, no, Castiel, not like that. You’re not Ernest fucking Hemingway at his typewriter. Here,” she said, sliding another cigarette out of her pack. “Hold it between two fingers, like this,” she demonstrated, holding it between her index and middle finger. “Like you’re gonna stab a dude in the eyes.”

“Do I want to know why you know how to stab someone in their eyes?” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“No, you do not.”

“Very well.” He repositioned the cigarette to Charlene’s specifications, brought it to his mouth again, and then stopped. He looked up at her with lost eyes.

“Oh for the love of Pete,” she grumbled good naturedly. “Like this,” she brought her new cigarette to her mouth and lit it. “You stick it in your mouth, then pull on it like you were sucking through a straw. Do  _ not  _ swallow it. Once it’s in your mouth,  _ then  _ you inhale.” She demonstrated, and then continued on the exhale, “you inhale for about three seconds, hold it for about three seconds, and then gently blow it out. Most people cough at first, but I doubt you will.”

He nodded, took a deep breath and on the exhale brought the cigarette to his unsure lips. They pursed around the end, and he did as Charlene instructed. The sensation was strange. A slight burning, more like a tickle but inside of him. He pulled it away and held his breath under Charlene’s watchful eye. He exhaled through his nose, and then suddenly it hit him; he felt a mild yet dizzying wave of euphoria roll through his body and dissipate into the air. He scrutinized the cigarette between his fingers curiously before repeating the procedure, and was pleasantly surprised by a second wave of dizziness. 

“Curious,” he muttered, eyeing the cigarette suspiciously. 

“Wait, do you feel something?”  she asked, leaning down to examine Castiel’s face.

“I feel… dizzy. In a pleasant way.” He made a motion to take another drag and Charlene stopped him.

“Whoa, whoa, pal. Wait a second.” She grabbed the can and brought it to him. “You have to ash that puppy, like this,” she took another drag from her cigarette and then tapped it into the can. “Your turn.”

Castiel gingerly tapped the cigarette over the can to relieve it of its half-inch head of ash. Charlene crouched into a squat, dangling both the can and her cigarette in between her knees as she stared at Castiel in fascination.

The angel was miles away as he took another drag off the cigarette. He was mildly aware that as an angel smoking should really have no effect on him whatsoever, at least in theory. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t know any angels who smoked, so he had no point of reference. This was virgin territory. He smiled at that thought, and then let himself slowly fall back onto the bed with a soft and pleasant whumph. He held the cigarette up above his head like a brass ring. 

Charlene smiled as she put the can back on the table. She tucked her cigarette between her lips as she reached over Castiel to grab her laptop. She spoke flatly with it in her mouth as she flipped the computer open and booted it up. “While I have you grasped tightly in my nicotine clutches, I wanna play something for you.” She took her cigarette into her left hand and she clicked away. “I think, based on what you’ve told me, that it will resonate with you.”

“I trust you,” Castiel said dreamily, taking another drag from his prone position.

Charlene chuckled. “I love you, you ridiculous creature, you.” Suddenly, she felt a flush surge up her neck, searing her cheeks. She didn’t know why she was embarrassed; she’d meant every word.

“I love you too, Charlene,” he replied softly. “You have made my life better.”

She smiled and replied, “Ditto.” With that, she clicked play.

_ Ah-ah, ah! _ _   
_ _ Ah-ah, ah! _

Castiel’s head perked up from the bed, brows furrowed in concentration. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and pushed himself up back to sitting.

_ We come from the land of the ice and snow, _ __   
_ From the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow. _ __   
_ The hammer of the gods, _ __   
_ We’ll drive our ships to new lands, _ __   
_ To fight the horde, and sing and cry, _ _   
_ __ Valhalla, I am coming!

He reached for the can to ash his cigarette only to find that it was spent. He crushed it on the lid and let it fall into the can, which Charlene then took from him as he continued to carefully listen.

_ On we sweep with threshing oar, _ _   
_ _ Our only goal will be the western shore. _

“What do you thin--” Charlene began, but Castiel held up his hand.

_ Ah-ah, ah! _ __   
_ Ah-ah, ah! _ __   
_ We come from the land of the ice and snow, _ __   
_ From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow. _ __   
_ How soft your fields so green, _ __   
_ Can whisper tales of gore, _ __   
_ Of how we calmed the tides of war. _ _   
_ __ We are your overlords.

_ On we sweep with threshing oar, _ _   
_ _ Our only goal will be the western shore. _

Castiel looked straight at Charlene whose blue eyes flared mischievously in the dim light. He raised an eyebrow and she responded in kind.

_ So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins, _ _   
_ _ For peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing. _

As the song faded out, she strode over and plopped down next to Castiel on the bed. “You pickin’ up what I’m laying down?”

He nodded softly. “You are good at this. I chose wisely”

“To be fair, you only had two options and one of them was Sam.”

“Write this one down as number one. What is it?”

She stood and did as Castiel bade. “Led Zeppelin. It’s called The Immigrant Song.”

“It is perfect.”

She smiled. “I hoped you’d think so. But now I need more info. The timeline, remember?”

Castiel rose to standing. “Yes, of course. But I think I would like another one of those cigarettes while we work.”

“I’ve created a monster…” she mumbled under her breath as she fished out another cigarette. She handed it over with a smile.


	7. The Smart One

The brothers sat across the table from one another; Sam clicked away at his laptop absently nibbling toast while Dean stabbed at his eggs impatiently. Dean’s gaze flicked up Sam, and he cleared his throat. When his brother didn’t reply, he cleared his throat again. Still nothing. 

“Sam,” he rasped impatiently.

“What?” he replied, startled by his brother’s sudden gruffness. 

“What time is it?” he asked, forcing himself to subdue his tone.

“Uh,” he said, looking down at the clock on his computer, “six oh four.”

“They’ve been in there for an hour,” he said, gesturing with his head down the hall toward the bedrooms.

“Yes, and…?”

“I made eggs?” he replied with uncharacteristic sheepishness.

“Charlene said they were on a ‘secret mission’. Maybe that mission doesn’t involve eggs?”

“Dammit, Sammy, can you be serious for a second?” his big brother scolded, green eyes flashing in frustration.

“Look, I know you want to show them the car, but that can w--”

“Sam, this isn’t about the friggin’ car, alright?” Dean snapped. “We need to go to Pearl’s house. We need Charlene’s permission to do that. That means I need to talk to Cas, alone.” He put down his fork and pushed himself away from the table with a huff. “I can’t do that if they’re holed up in there forever.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to bother them, at least not right now,” counseled Sam. “It’s early yet, and I don’t think she slept. She hasn’t been sleeping well from what I understand.”

“Yeah, that makes two of us,” added Dean sarcastically.

“Three of us, actually.”

“You too, eh?” he said, pityingly. 

“Yeah, man. I get into bed, close my eyes, and I’ll start to dream. Then--”

“You go back at the house, right?” Dean interjected bleakly.

Sam narrowed his eyes in confusion. “How did you know?”

“Because I keep going back there, too. I see the tree, covered in crows, only--”

“Only everything is awash in a red haze,” he said, finishing the sentence.

“And the crows are silent.”

“And the tree calls out to me. Not with words, but with intentions. It wants,” Sam paused to articulate his thoughts, “me. To join her.”

Dean swallowed and leaned into the table. “What do you feel like in the dream?”

Sam cleared his throat and looked past Dean to the wall behind him. “I feel peaceful and happy. No fear. Not a care in the world.”

Dean took a deep breath and blew it out quickly. “Me too,” he said softly.

“And then I wake up. Three nights in a row it was like that, so I brought research into my room so I had something to work on during the night.”

“Ya think Charlene is having the same dreams?”

Sam looked up for a moment, thinking. “There’s a good chance. I mean, we were all affected by what happened to some degree. I was hypnotized, you were zonked out, and Charlene was--”

“Possessed by the Greek goddess of mad rage?”

“Yes,” he responded flatly. “That.”

“So yeah, I’m gonna assume nightmares all around.” He picked up his fork, speared one more bite of egg, then stood and walked the plate to the sink. “Just show me whatcha got so far, he said, turning back toward his brother. “At least then I’ll know what we don’t know.”

Sam closed his laptop and turned. “Okay, come to my room and I’ll show you.”

The brothers made their way down the hall to Sam’s room, still clad in pajamas and robes. From the end of the hall, they could hear Charlene’s unmistakable cackle through her bedroom door, prompting a smile from Sam and a scowl from Dean that he failed to hide despite his best intentions.

When Dean entered the room behind his brother, he let out a low whistle. 

“What?” asked Sam, voice edged with insecurity.

Dean’s eyes scanned the room, every available surface covered in books, notebooks, journals, file folders, and loose papers. His room was normally filled with research, but this was a whole new level. “You’ve really let this place go, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been… busy.”

“I can see that.”

Sam gestured around the room. “This is all of the material I could dig up on the Greek pantheon, as well as lore surrounding rage, madness, possession of a non-ghost, non-demon, non-celestial nature, forced dream states, crows, non-lycanthropic non-hellhound dogs, red mists, and trees. Oh, and there are writings on sacrificial rites, chosen vessels, women in mythology, and angelic grace.”

“Wow,” said Dean softly. “So what do you know?”

Sam cleared his throat and picked up a single notebook. ‘I wrote anything pertinent down in here.”

Dean’s eyes scanned the room again, then down to the notebook. “That’s it? You read all of this,” he said, gesturing emphatically to the piles of lore, “and the only useful crap you’ve found barely fills a notebook?”

“Half-fills,” he said, eyes cast down.

“Well that’s just great,” Dean grumbled.

Sam shrugged. “The Men of Letters were pretty adamant that the Greek and Roman pantheons were merely perverted adaptations of the monotheistic paradigm, designed to manipulate and mislead the public.”

“Say what now?” Dean said with a lost look.

Sam’s eye glanced up, trying to find a more concise explanation. “A lot of this stuff is merely documentation of debunked claims. They were convinced that things like Lyssa were not real, that they were either made up or were misunderstood. There are countless examples of events reattributed to witches, poltergeists, demons, or reapers. As far as they were concerned, someone like Lyssa couldn’t exist.”

Dean looked at his brother and shrugged. “So they’re wrong. Color me unsurprised.”

“I’m just… at an impasse,” Sam said as he tossed the notebook onto his bed, low voice hinting at an insecurity that Dean could tell he’d prefer to keep hidden.

Dean reached over and picked the notebook back up to flip through it. “Maybe you’ve just been going about this the wrong way,” he wondered. “You say the Men of Letters attributed all this Greek mythology stuff to other monsters, right? But we know that’s bullshit. We’ve friggin’ met Zeus. What if we look for Lyssa-related powers, see what monsters those are attributed to, and work backwards?”

Sam’s eyes brightened. “You mean research monsters that could have actually been Lyssa but that the Men of Letters were too prejudiced to acknowledge?”

Dean nodded with self-satisfied smugness. “I’m the smart one today, Sammy.”

“It does mean we have to start again, going through all this I mean.”

Dean’s face fell. “We?”

“Yeah, Dean. You’re the smart one, remember,” he said with a sly smile. “Regardless of your distaste for the task, you’re just as good at research as me, if not better. You see the forest. All I see is trees. And,” he said, taking the notebook back again, “we still need to go to Pearl’s house. The rest of the pieces of this puzzle are there; I know they are there.”

Dean nodded in concession. “Where do we start?”

“I’m going to focus on history and mythology, cross referencing the supposed genesis of Lyssa with the appearance of other significant supernatural figures. I need you to work on the actual manifestation of Lyssa, her powers, and her summoning. In fact, I have a pile just for that,” he said, lifting about a foot and a half of books and folios off his dresser and placing them in Dean’s rigid arms, with the notebook on top. Sam smiled at his brother’s disgruntled look.

“Fine,” Dean said gruffly, shifting the weight of the books to a more comfortable distribution. “But you need to make more coffee.”

“Coming right up.”


	8. Never Wanted to Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by Yellow Flavored Energy Beverage™.

Castiel laid face down the bed, having removed his shoes, cigarette sticking out the side of his mouth as he stared at the screen in front of him. Charlene laid next to him on his right, propped up on her elbows, pen and notebook in hand. They had moved the rest of her belonging to the dresser.

“What am I looking at?” Castiel said after taking a drag and removing the cigarette from his mouth.

“That,” she said, pointing at the screen with her pen, “is my entire music library. I have it set up with a tagging system.”

“Explain.”

“Well, you see, tags are labels. I’ve labeled each song by genre, era, band versus solo artist, gender, mood, rhythm style--”

“That is a level of meticulousness I usually only see from Sam,” he gravelled as he squinted at the screen, stretching an arm out to ash the cigarette into the can they’d wedged between the mattress and the bed frame.

“‘Meticulous’ is a nice way to describe it,” she said with a impish smile.

“Where does it list the tags?” Castiel asked, mousing around with the trackpad.

“You have to click the song to see the tag, but you can also just click here,” she pointed to the screen with the pen, “and type in the tags you want. It will narrow down the songs until you find the one you’re looking for.”

Castiel chose one song from the list to examine the tags, a band he remembered from one of Charlene’s t-shirts. _Industrial Rock. 90s. Male Vocals. Anger. Angst. Music to bone to._

“What is ‘music to bone to’?” he asked curiously, followed by another drag.

She leaned over to see what he’d clicked. _Closer_ by _Nine Inch Nails_ . She snorted. “Well, Castiel, _that_ is a song I would play in the background whilst fucking someone.”

“So perhaps you should put it on a tape for Sam?” he said, flat affect belied by a mischievous smile.

She reached over and took the cigarette from Castiel’s left hand took a puff. “Nah, that’s a little too on the nose. If I were making a tape for Sam, I’d choose something a little more like this,” she scrolled on the track pad and double clicked one of the songs. She stuck the cigarette in her mouth, then popped to her knees and slid off the bed in one smooth movement. She came around the side of the bed, snatched up the can, and stubbed the cigarette out. She set the can back down on the night stand and picked up a new one, cracking it open and drinking deeply as the music began to play. The drums started up and she swayed her hips in time. A smile slowly crept across Castiel’s face as Charlene sang along into the yellow can as if it were a microphone.

_Wine, women, and song: I tried them all,_   
_it did not take me long to figure I'd unlocked the door to happiness._   
_I figured wrong, with a capital R,_   
_All the baggage I brought wouldn't fit in a mid-size car._   
_That's why I'm walking on eggshells down the via dolorosa,_ _  
Hasn't got me any closer so far._

Castiel pushed himself up to his knees and settled down into a cross-legged seat as he watched Charlene. She looked at him from time to time, grinning with carefree eyes that looked out of place considering their circumstances. She looked free, a bird high above the clouds looking down on the mess of the world with nothing but kind regard. Her voice was lovely and low, with a smokey tone the curled around the edges playfully. He found himself entranced.

_Shacked up with a poet -- no, it wasn't my department._   
_Now I study the poetry of the studio apartment._   
_Changing the cat box, baking the bread..._   
_I shoulda been paying the bills instead of paying homage to an image_ _  
drawn from somebody else's head._

She walked over and slid the laptop aside, and reached out to Castiel with her free hand. He looked at it curiously, and then up into a face he could not refuse. He hesitantly took her hand and she helped him to his feet as the song continued playing and she kept singing.

_Song, women, and wine:_   
_You can't fool all the people all the time,_   
_But if you're trying, if you're looking, if you're lucky_   
_You can always fool a few and feel fine._   
_Is the line between shame and dread:_   
_One grips the lungs, one brains the head,_   
_But either one can crush you,_ _  
Anyone can crush you._

She placed the can on the dresser and guided his hands to her hips, then brought hers up to his shoulders as she moved from side to side. Thanks to Dean, this was not his first time dancing with a partner, and he wasn’t overcome with paralyzing insecurity that he almost certainly would have felt otherwise. This was different from dancing with Dean, there was nothing romantic or lustful about this; this dancing was just… fun. He smiled as she continued.

_Once I dated an actor, she was working on a play;_   
_by opening night we had nothing left to say to each other._   
_It hit the wall, it was not resilient,_   
_She said that she was hungrier than I was brilliant_ _  
and who the hell was I to disagree?_

_Didn't you used to be someone who meant something to me?_   
_Somebody who meant something to me?  
Someone who meant something to me?_

She slid her hands down his arms slowly and took his hands as she finished, eyes closed, smiling beatifically.

_Wine, women, and song:_   
_I tried them all it did not take me long_   
_To figure I'd unlocked the door to happiness,_ _  
I figured wrong._

When the song was over she opened her eyes and beamed at Castiel gratefully.

“Oh thank fuck, that feels better!” she exclaimed.

“To sing?” said Castiel with wondering eyes.

She laughed. “Yeah, to sing! And dance! I used to sing all the time, but it happened less and less once I moved out here, and then not at all for… a couple of months I guess? Anyway, it’s been too long.”

Castiel tilted his head in amusement. “Would you like to continue dancing?”

“Aw, Castiel... “ she started, low voice grateful. “We’re working on _your_ project, remember?”

He cleared his throat and attempted to use his most serious voice. “I think studying the human body’s reaction to music is important research, would you not agree?”

She scrunched her nose up and her eyes smiled. “You sure about that, angel?”

“Utterly.”

She shrugged. “Okay! One more.” She bounded over to the computer,moved it to the dresser, scrolled for a moment, then hit play. Suddenly loud electric guitars and synthesizers blared from the speakers and an angry voice called out over an electric drum line. Charlene started bouncing excitedly; Castiel quickly realized this song required an entirely different type of dancing.

_There is nothing you can do that I have not already done to myself,_   
_There is nothing you can do that I have not already done to myself,_   
_There is nothing you can do that I have not happily done to myself,_ _  
No, there is nothing you can do that I have not already done to myself!_

Charlene threw her hips from side to side, whipping his raven hair back and forth in time with the music. She hopped from foot to foot and rolled her shoulders to match the churning of the guitar line. Castiel was frozen in awe. He stared at her, trying to narrow down one movement that he could mimic, at least to start with. He decided to follow her hips.

_Never wanted to dance with nobody, not you!_   
_Never wanted to dance with nobody, but you-_   
_Never wanted to dance with nobody, but you-_ _  
Wouldn't take "no" for an answer, you fucking bitch!_

Suddenly the music changed tempo and he was lost again, a momentary panic sparking in his chest. She looked up and him and grinned brilliantly. She reached out and snatched his wrists, pushing them in towards his chest, and then swung them them out slightly in time with the music. She released him, then mimicked the movement. He followed.

“You’re doing great, Cas!” she called over the music. “Now shake your head!” He did as he was bade.

_Be nice!_   
_Be nice to me,_   
_Don't let me bleed._   
_Be nice!_   
_Be nice to me,_   
_Don't let me go!_   
_I'm too cool for the second grade!_   
_I'm amazed!_   
_I'm afraid!_   
_I'm too cool for the second grade!_   
_There is nothing!_   
_You can do!_ _  
That I have not already done to myself._

Castiel didn’t know exactly when he stopped caring what his body was doing, but it was definitely before Charlene jumped onto the bed and started dancing on the mattress. She made a come hither motion with her hands and Castiel happily joined her as the music and their bodies flailed about with a singular intent.

_There is nothing you can do that I have not already done to myself,_   
_There is nothing you can do that I have not already done to myself,_   
_There is nothing you can DO that I have not happily done to myself,_   
_No, there is nothing you can do that I have not already done to myself!_   
_Never wanted to dance with nobody, not you!_   
_Never wanted to dance with nobody, but you-_   
_Never wanted to dance with nobody, but you-_ _  
Wouldn't take "no" for an answer, you fucking bitch!_

The song ended abruptly, and Charlene took several deep breaths. Castiel gazed upon her and saw a woman transformed. Gone were the dull, lifeless eyes, the sallow complexion. Her cheeks with flushed, her lively eyes gleamed with excitement. Her smile was broad, genuine, and grateful. Castiel felt as if he’d been freed of an anchor, surfacing from the cold, black depths to see the bright blue of a summer’s day. Her unvarnished joy made him forget about all of the hurt and trauma and fear.

Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. “Castiel?” she said softly. She gingerly reached out and rested her hand on his chest. He looked down to see the gentle glow of his grace pulsing softly under the fabric of the Led Zeppelin t-shirt.

“Curious,” he said with a half-smile.

“Indeed,” she replied.


	9. The Smart One

Sam and Dean sat in the library with their respective piles of books, both sipping coffee number five as they read through book after book of lore. They had changed out of their robes into jeans and t-shirts, and while Dean had put on boots Sam’s feet remained slippered. He unconsciously jiggled his foot, flapping the sole of the slipper against his heel. Dean had asked him to cut it out enough times that he finally gave up, allowing the sound to fade to background noise. They kept referring to their growing piles of notes, adding details, crossing out contradictions. Finally, Dean stopped reading and called his brother over.

“Have you ever heard of thiriokinesis?” he asked, finger pointing out a section midway through  _ Bendolin’s Matters of Mind Sorcery _ .  

“Like, psychokinesis?” Sam asked, grateful for the opportunity to stand. The coffee burning through his veins had combined with his bleary-eyed stupor to create a viscous, boiling mess that made the chair less than welcoming.

“Not far off, actually,” replied his brother, whose knee jiggled noticeably under the table. “It’s says here it’s the ability to control animals with your mind.”

“Well that sounds fairly relevant,” said Sam, voice edged with hope.

“Well, it says it’s a pretty common power across a bunch of different monsters and beings. Usually anything to do with nature, fey--”

Sam tipped his head and furrowed his brow. “Fey? You think this is fairy related?”

“I don’t know what I think, Sam,” Dean replied in mild frustration. He picked up the book and shook it. “This book says that some fairies can control animals. A dog is an animal. A crow is an animal. You know who else can control animals? The friggin Horse Whisperer. Maybe we should look for him.”

Sam rolled his eyes as he took the book from his brother and inspected the page. “So get this: it says here that thiriokinesis is a pretty strong power. It’s not something that just any old fairy can use.”

Dean nodded, following Sam’s line of reasoning. “So it would need to be a pretty juiced up fairy.”

“Exactly, not like the leprechauns or tinks or elves we’ve encountered before. Something more like the wicked witches of Oz.”

“What about… that fairy king?”

“Oberon?” Sam guessed.

“Yeah, him,” Dean said, sliding over the notebook. “I’ll add him to the list of suspects.”

“Next to the Horse Whisperer?” Sam smirked.

Dean turned in his chair and pointed the pen at his little brother with a stern look.

“Start digging into the fairy lore,” Sam suggested. “See what kind of hijinks these high level fairies would get up to. Maybe some of it isn’t fairy magic at all. Cross reference it with what we know about Lyssa and Nyx.” 

“Yeah, Nyx!” Dean agreed emphatically, remembering what he and Sam had learned on their first trip to Charlene’s apartment. “Goddess of the Night, right?”

“Supposedly she’s Lyssa’s mother. She didn’t have a father per se…” Sam trailed off.

“Yeah, I remember from article online. Uranus, he, uh…” Dean added, shifting uncomfortably.

“In Greek he’s Ouranos, and uh…”

Dean stopped beating around the bush. “Castrated. He was castrated and bled all over Nyx and then boom, Lyssa.”

Sam shuddered. “Though I’m sure it’s all just figurative language. Translations of translations.”

“Dude,” corrected Dean, “Zeus threw literal lighting.”

“Well, then be happy you’re not Ouranos.”

Dean chuckled bleakly, “Yeah, no shit.” He turned back to the notebook, narrowed eyes scanning the page curiously. “Fey culture is very rule-governed, right? Law and order? They have their fairy tribunal, they make deals with humans...”

Sam hazarded a guess. “Maybe this is a similar situation? Pearl made a deal but didn’t know the price?”

“I dunno, Sammy,” Dean mulled, flexing his hands nervously in his lap. “From what we saw, Pearl believed that Charlene was the second coming of Lyssa, a meat suit. What was paid? Owed? This wasn’t an accident; this was  _ bargained  _ for.” The look on his face was contemplative yet annoyed. He drummed the fingers of one of his hands on the underside of the table. “I don’t know how to reconcile these two…”

“Paradigms?” ventured Sam.

“Yeah, man. That,” Dean nodded. “We need more information.”

“You need to talk to Cas. We need to get to Pearl’s ASAP. It’s almost eight.”

Dean looked down the hall, hearing voices and laughter barely audible to Sam but to Dean they might as well had been dialed up to eleven. He rolled his eyes. “Sounds like a party down there,” he muttered. “At least someone is having a good time.”

“Go knock.”

“Ehhhh…”

“Dean, please. I need your help. She needs your help.” Sam’s puppy dog eyes were annoyingly persuasive, but Dean would never, ever tell him that.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, conceding. 

He stood up, but moving forward felt like moving through hot cement. He was doing his best to be helpful, to be strong, but the fact of the matter was that he felt anything but. He’d thrown all his effort into fixing the car, but of course the car was not the problem. He had given Castiel the space he asked for. What was the saying? Let it go and it will come back to you? It was obvious that part of it was true. He let him go, and he came back, but not to him. He came back to Charlene. 

He looked happy for the first time in a week, and it was because of this unknown quantity mystery woman who was possibly a demigod, certainly magical, and far more charismatic than Dean which was saying a lot. Charlene was the type of woman Dean would never be able to pick up at a bar, the type of woman who did the heavy lifting all on her own. She wasn’t the most classically beautiful woman he’d met, all long limbs and sharp, androgynous features, but all she had to do was walk, talk, smile, or laugh and all preconcieved notions of sexy would fall away. Her presence alone was almost intoxicating. She was powerfully intelligent, unrefusable, and Dean completely understood why Sam was head over heels for her. Even as she slogged through grief, the twinkle of her blue eyes still brightened every room. 

She offered Castiel many things Dean could not. Open companionship, which Dean knew he’d denied Castiel for so long. Too many rejections, too many utterances of  “you’re like a brother to me”. The mere recollection of the phrase created a sour, sinking vacuum in his gut. Castiel was his best friend, but damn if Dean didn’t make him prove it every day for the last eight years. Charlene, on the other hand, was immediately open, instantaneously understanding, and infinitely welcoming. She had the ease of a blank slate, the charisma of a cult leader, and something literally fucking magical. And she was hurt. And she was Castiel’s friend, his only friend outside of Sam and Dean. If she was what Castiel needed right now, then he’d have to live with it, but goddamn if it didn’t hurt. Dean never felt good enough for Castiel, and this sure as hell felt like proof positive that he was right.

As he padded down the hall, he could hear their voices grow louder. At first he wasn’t sure if they were watching a movie or talking. He thought he heard the voice of a man talking animatedly. Castiel was known in heaven and on earth for many things, but speaking with enthusiasm was not one of them. Every step felt like treading on lightbulbs. He wanted to turn, go back to Sam and make up some excuse. Even briefly seeing Castiel earlier that morning had been torture. Magically appearing before him, dressed in a mystifying piecemeal of suiting and denim that he wore effortlessly, Castiel looked as easy as anyone could prone on the ground covered in women’s underwear. Did Charlene help him pick out the outfit? Or did he do so himself? Dean wanted to be the one to lead him by the hand into a human lifestyle, after failing him so completely before. Dean knew that he was the only 100% certifiable human between the three of them, and therefore logically the most qualified. Instead, he followed behind through a door already propped open.

“Dammit, Winchester,” he muttered to himself as he approached the door at the end of the hall. “Get your friggin’ head out of your ass. She needs you.  _ He  _ needs you.” He tugged down the front of his shirt and tilted his head to crack his neck. He raised a hand, struggling to decide how much pressure to use to convey a combination of supportiveness, authority, and urgency. He sniffed.

His eyes narrowed as looked internally. “Are they fucking  _ smoking _ ?” Dean whispered to himself, appalled. His eyes darted up to meet the door. “What has she  _ done  _ to you?”


	10. You'd Be Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience, folks!

They stood on the bed in silence for a solid minute, Charlene’s hand resting on Castiel’s chest as she stared in awe at the slowly dimming light the emanated from his torso. It wasn’t until it had abated completely that her eyes slowly rose to meet his. 

Finally, he spoke. “This is a, uh, new development,” he said hoarsely.

“How new?” she hummed comfortingly. She could tell that the angel’s elation was slowly slipping into something more like embarrassment. 

“Since, since you helped me--”

“Since Pie Night?” 

He nodded. “Before then, my grace was well guarded. It only came out when I was wrathful, about to smite someone or some thing. On… Pie Night, as you say, something changed.”

Charlene moved her hand to Castiel’s shoulder and let it slide down his arm. She took him gently by the hand as she stepped off the bed, and then guided him to the floor as well. She lowered herself to sit on the edge of the mattress, and motioned for Castiel to join her. They sat close, hips pressing against one another. She slid an arm around his waist and he slowly, hesitatingly rested his head on her shoulder. 

“I am sorry,” he barely more than whispered.

“What on earth for?” she soothed.

“I am… unaccustomed to this level of easy physical affection.”

“If I make you uncomfortable, please tell me. Angels in general aren’t very touchy-feely, are they?” she asked through a soft smile. 

“There are rare exceptions, but generally, no, they are not. Your affection is quite welcome, it is just very alien. I… did not know how much I craved it after so many years in this human vessel. I pushed my desire deep down inside so as to be unobtrusive.”

She squeezed him and he sighed. “What do you mean, ‘unobtrusive’?” she asked.

“Above all things, I desired to be useful, helpful. It was the only way I knew to win any sort of affection from Dean, that is until very recently.”

“That makes me sad, Cas,” she sighed. “I’m so, so sorry that you had to wait so long.”  

He nodded into her shoulder. “Things are different now, but also frightening. I am having difficulty controlling it, my grace I mean. It is not just flaring when I am angry anymore, but when I experience any strong emotion. Dean says it is because I am not used to being loved. I suspected he was correct, that it was tied to him somehow. But now, I am not so sure.”

“Why does that scare you?”

“If I cannot control it, I am a danger. What if I hurt someone?”

“That seems uncharacteristic of you.”

Castiel didn’t speak for a moment, and then in a low voice he cautioned, “I have hurt a great many people, Charlene.” As he spoke, she felt a subdued hiss of static raise the fine hairs of the arm she wrapped around his waist. He suddenly lifted his head and scooted away, and she pulled her arm back. She turned and scanned him, the twinkle in her eyes shifting into pointed worry. He did not look up but merely stared at his hands in his lap. 

“You aren’t going to hurt me, Castiel,” she stated flatly. “I have the distinct impression that you wouldn’t hurt a fly unless it was about to do something quite nasty to Dean Winchester.”

“I think flies are underappreciated,” Castiel said, finally looking up at Charlene under thoughtful brows. “They are a crucial part of the food chain and are extremely important decomposers.”

Charlene broke into a grin, and Castiel followed suit. “Castiel, anything you need, I’m here for you. Okay? No matter what happens with me and Sam, I’m here. Your friend. Forever.” She reached out tentatively and placed her hand back over his heart. He looked at her, big blue eyes reflecting back every ounce of gratitude she felt having found her first real friend. “We still have work to do,” she said, mouth curling into a sly, half-grin.

She bounced up from the bed and over to the dresser where the laptop rested. She hooked it up the the power cord, brought it back to the bed, and handed it to Castiel. She snatched up her notebook and pen, and plopped down next to him with pensive eyes. 

“Tell me about yourself, Castiel,” she said, playfully biting the corner of her lip. 

He looked down at the laptop, unsure of what to do with it, and then decided to set it next to him. “Can you be more specific?” he asked, voice gruff but insecure. 

Well, we have a song picked for when you first met Dean,” she started in a professorial tone, “but we need to decide on other major points along your timeline that you want to reference. Then we can isolate the emotions tied to those events and use those to pick songs.”

“You make it sound simple,” he said with a voice edged with sarcasm.

“It’s simpler than you think. You said you wanted to convey regrets, rough times when mistakes were made. What was the first thing that sticks out in your mind, after you pulled him out of hell I mean.” She rested the tip of the pen on his chin and stared at him with soft eyes as he looked upward and drummed his fingertips lightly on his knees. He then gave her a sideways glance, asking permission with anxious eyes.

“Sure, Castiel, go ahead,” she smiled, digging the cigarettes and lighter from her pocket. She tossed them and he caught them with ease. With the agility of a practiced smoker he slid one from the pack, brought it to his mouth, lit it with a single flick, and inhaled. He relaxed down onto the bed on the exhale, and rested the pack and lighter on his chest. He held out his free hand, into which Charlene placed the empty can they’d been using for butts. 

“My first large regret was that I immediately distanced myself from him,” he started softly. “The second I touched his soul in hell I knew something was different. I was changed. I was compelled to help him, to be around him. He utterly fascinated me.” He took a drag, and continued, groaning through the exhale. “I told him that I wasn’t at his beck and call, that my loyalty was to heaven. I pushed him away, hoping he’d take the hint. I wanted to give him a reason to go.”

“I see. That worked like gangbusters.”

He lolled his head toward her with narrowed eyes and she smiled.

“Are you going to continue to make light of my story as we go through this process?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

“I already have what I need for this event,” she reassured. This is like a breakup. You are looking for reasons, excuses to move on and push him away. Keywords: breakup, loss, and sass, because I’m guessing you were a cocky sonofabitch back then.”

“Yes,” he said nodding, taking another puff. “I believe that is an accurate characterization.’

She reached over and took the cigarette, ashing it into the can, and took a drag herself. “Okay, Blue, what’s next?”

Castiel propped himself onto his elbows and the packet of cigarettes slid off of him and to the side. He looked at her curiously. “What did you just call me?”

Charlene looked up, and then back to Castiel. “I called you Blue.” When he furrowed his eyebrows, she continued, “it just kinda plopped out.”

“Why Blue?” 

“Because if you were a color, you’d be Blue.”

He reclined back to prone and laced his fingers over his chest. “Your Blue Angel?” he asked quietly.

“Exactly,” she replied softly.

“I like it.”

“Good.”

She took another puff of the cigarette, ashed it again, leaned over, and slid it back between Castiel’s lips before reclining back against the headboard. “Okay, so what next?”

“I suppose another regretful situation came when I allowed myself to be put in a compromising situation that I thought would please Dean.”

“That sounds ominous,” she said mischievously. 

“He took me to a den of iniquity.”

Charlene choked on her own spit. “A what now?”

“A brothel.”

Charlene snorted. “Why on earth would he take you there?”

“Our deaths were imminent, and he said I shouldn’t die a virgin.”

“Oh. That’s awkward.”

“Yes. Trust me, I did not want to die a virgin, but I had no desire to lose my virginity in such a way. I just wanted to be around  _ him _ . I wanted to see him happy, one more time.” Castiel sighed, and took a long drag. “It was mortifying. I only managed to scare away one of the escorts, embarrass Dean, and the whole time all I wanted was  _ his  _ contact.  _ His  _ approval.”

Charlene didn’t speak for a while. Castiel merely stared at the ceiling wistfully. Finally, she spoke. “Wow.”

Castiel nodded wordlessly.

“Well, I already think I know just the song for that, but in the meantime I’ll just write ‘fish out of water’, ‘pining’, and ‘insecurity’.”

“That sounds accurate.” He held out the cigarette and she took it.

“Next?” she said, exhaling upward toward the ceiling.

“Well, then there were numerous events that all happened around the same time, but are very complex emotionally speaking.”

“Well, try to break ‘em down for me.”

“I was informed that God was gone,” he said slowly, sadly. “He had left us, left me.”

“Holy shit,” yipped Charlene. She took another puff and stabbed out the spent butt. “What did you do?”

“Let us just say, I became moody,” he gravelled. “I felt abandoned for the first time in my life. I was filled with rage, disappointment, self-loathing. I did not know how to process those emotions, so I looked for someone to emulate. I found Dean.”

She cleared her throat. “That’s when you drank the liquor store. Just a guess.”

“An accurate one, yes.”

She scribbled down something in the notebook. “Did you talk about it? With him, I mean?”

Castiel nodded. “We talked about absent fathers. I felt… I felt as if someone actually understood me, for the first time in my wretched existence.”

“And then what happened?” Her voice was sensitive, soft.

“I found out that he planned to sacrifice himself to prevent the apocalypse. I was…” he propped himself and turned on his side toward her, eyes narrowed and voice low, “I beat him senseless. I screamed at him, shamed him. I felt so badly afterwards. I started to throw myself into harm’s way. I went up against Lucifer himself, armed with next to nothing, and was killed.”

All Charlene could muster was a low whistle.

“Am I…?” He pushed himself to sitting and stared at the floor. “I am asking too much of you,” he declared flatly.

Charlene set her book aside and slid up next to him. “No, no, you really aren’t.” She slid her hand under his and he turned to meet her soft azure gaze. 

Looking at her hurt, a low, throbbing pain deep in the gut. He looked past her instead, at the wall behind. She had all of the self-possession, the charm, the eloquence he lacked, had always lacked. She never struggled for words. She seemed impenetrable, completely immune to the horrors of the world. Her grace, or whatever it was she possessed, was completely under her control. He envied her. 

He drew forth the courage required to look at her again, and his eyes flickered down to her mouth; her lower lip was trembling. He looked to her eyes and saw tears welling. She looked up in an effort to drain them, but they came too quickly and spilled down her cheeks.

“Oh,” he said softly. He’d been too self-pitying, too simplistic. He’d confused strength with perfection, resoluteness with immunity. Without thinking he lifted a hand to the side of her face and swiped his thumb across her cheek. She rolled her eyes and smiled through a sniff. She brought her free hand to his and gave it a gentle squeeze, then stood. She leaned over and pressed a kiss into his hair, and mumbled, “Thanks, Blue.” 

She walked over to the dresser and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, then picked up the third energy drink. It slipped from her hands and fell to the ground. “Shit,” she mumbled, and leaned over to pick it up. As she did so, her shirt rode up and Castiel could see what appeared to be a black tattoo edging down either side of her spine, but the details were difficult to discern. She rose, cracked open the can, and took a deep swig. She leaned up against the dresser wearing something between a smile and a wince. Castiel returned the expression with a small shrug.

“Let’s keep workin’, okay?” she said softly with a sniff. “It may not look like it, but this is helping me. It really is.”

Over the next hour they sat on the bed, Castiel talking away and Charlene taking notes. She tried to say as little as possible, let Castiel develop his story organically. At multiple points she struggled to contain her emotions. So many tragedies in such a short span of time, she had trouble taking it all in. Having been through all that, and yet still able to stay on the winding path that had brought he and Dean together seemed like an impossible miracle, angel or not.

Once Castiel felt confident he’d hit all the major points, he had Charlene read her notes back to him.

“Okay, so we have The Immigrant Song, followed by something of a sassy breakup song, right?” she said, following her notes with the tip of her pen.

Castiel nodded.

“And then our fish out of water song for your uncomfortable brothel experience. After that, felt abandoned, needed help, and rather than reach out in a healthy way you got shithoused and bonded with Dean. I have ‘alcohol’, ‘codependency’, ‘anger’, ‘daddy issues’, and ‘party’ written down for that one.”

“It was hardly a party,” corrected Castiel.

Charlene nodded, adding, “It’s more of a mood qualifier. With only the other tags all you’ll dredge up is dark shit and the interaction overall was a positive one I think.”

“True.”

“Then you have your break into two, where you lament the thoughtless sacrifices you’ve both made, throwing yourselves into harm’s way without considering how it would impact the other. And then you died.”

Castiel nodded mutely. 

“So I wrote down ‘regret’, ‘sacrifice’, ‘sad’, ‘religious overtones’, ‘conflict’, and ‘love’.”

“This is so angsty,” he almost groaned, running his hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end. Charlene didn’t mention it, merely smiled.

“Do you disagree with my tagging?”

“Not in the slightest,” he conceded.

“Well I guess your time on earth has just been excessively angsty, m’laddo,” she concluded with a grin.

“Okay, fine. Keep going.”

“So then, let me make sure I have this right, you lie to Dean, absorb all the souls from Purgatory, declare yourself the new God, and tell Dean that he’s not your family, that you have no family, all because you think you know how to fix everything? You lie to push him away?” She winced, knowing full well how terrible it all sounded being read back.

This time Castiel really did groan as he took his head in his hands and closed his eyes. His face was hot with shame; he couldn’t bring himself to speak, let alone look at her.

Charlene leaned over and pat him gently between the shoulder blades, causing him to hiss and buck forward slightly. She could have sworn she felt a staticky burn pulse up her hand and arm.

“My apologies,” he gruffed softly, finally bringing his eyes to meet hers. “That is a… sensitive spot.”

“I can see that,” she said softly with narrowed eyes. She reclined back on the headboard as he straightened up. “I have ‘lying’, ‘denial’, ‘betrayal’, and ‘breakup’ for this one, too. I also added ‘malice’.”

“You have a tag for ‘malice’?” he asked, unsure of whether to be impressed or concerned.

“I have a tag for everything,” she replied smugly.

“Fine,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Next, you have the incident with Naomi?”

She turned the page. “Yes, she brainwashed you to kill Dean, right? And then when the time came he told you that he needed you, and you couldn’t go through with it? Because you knew you needed him too?” Reading back the notes caused the bottom of her stomach to drop out. What Castiel and Dean had together was beyond Charlene’s ability to comprehend. How two people could go through all of this and come out the other side was something she’d only very recently been able to understand. What had happened with her mother, with Lyssa… she still hadn’t really let herself process it. Even this act of helping Castiel, it was a finger in the dyke. A distraction. An artificial barrier holding back her own demons.

He nodded at what she’d said, but it felt like he was reading her mind, acknowledging her thoughts. She simultaneously dreaded and hoped that he’d understood.

“So I wrote ‘codependency’ and ‘reconciliation’,” she said, despite it feeling wrong to boil it down to two simple words.

“Good, yes,” he agreed, catching her gaze. “Charlene,” he said, twilight eyes complete with stars boring straight into her, “I cannot thank you enough for your help. All of your help. I lack the words. Perhaps there are none.”

She gave a small, restrained half-smile; anything broader would tear open the thin film covering her own churning emotions. “Shall we continue?”

He nodded.

“So next we have the time you spent as a human.”

“Yes, and I know what words I want associated with it,” he said firmly.

“Do you?”

“Yes. ‘Humble’, as well as ‘lonely’,” he said with a satisfied nod. “When Dean sent me away, I felt so empty, but also like I had to prove something to him. That I could be a fully-functioning human being. But I know now that I am not, I shouldn’t try to be. I’m… me. And that is good enough.”

“I’d say it’s more than ‘good enough’, Blue,” she said with finger quotes. “You’re are no less than the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

He didn’t reply, eyes trying to find anything to look at but her.

“So you have one last moment you want to immortalize?” she asked after a while.

“Yes, my most recent blunder.”

“Taking in Lucifer.”

“I thought it would help. That it would be the only way to protect Sam, to stop the end of the world. I wanted to help Dean, to protect him from the Darkness, even if it meant losing myself. I had lost hope that my feelings for him would ever be requited. Better he live than I.”

“Your swan song,” she said, low voice soft and sad.

He tilted his head at the idiom, but then nodded in understanding. “Yes. Write ‘lonely’, ‘helpless’, ‘desperate’, and ‘love’.”

“Already got you covered, hun,” she said, putting the marker in the book and closing it before scooting toward him. “But I think you need one more. One more song that tells how you are feeling now. End on a high note.”

“Yes. I agree. To counteract the--”

“Oh! The angst!” Charlene cried out, wrapping her long arms around her waist and doubling over as if in pain. “Uhhhhh…” she slid to the floor and started to roll around, eyes pressed shut and mouth twisted into a grimace. “So… angsty… can’t… even…”

Castiel couldn’t help but break into a smile, and then gave a small chuckle. From her position on the floor Charlene let one eye open and pointed it straight at Castiel. “Cas… Castiel… don’t come near me,” she said, holding out a hand of warning. “The angst, it is… contagious. Don’t--”

Suddenly Castiel brought his hands up to the sides of his head, closed his eyes, and groaned. “Ow. The angst,” he said flatly, suppressing a smirk. “I can feel my heart breaking with the futility of existence and oppressive loneliness.” Suddenly he felt Charlene’s hand reach up and yank him to the floor.

“I can’t go on!” she wailed.

“Oh, the agony!” Castiel deadpanned, flinging the back of his hand to his forehead as he collapsed on his back.

Suddenly, there was a severe knock at the door. Castiel and Charlene whipped their heads toward one another with wide eyes, flattening their smiles into tight, white lines.

“Uh, Cas,” Dean called out from the other side of the door. “Ya gotta minute, pal?”


	11. I Can Be Both

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The smut has arrived.

Dean rocked back and forth on his heels impatiently, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he waited for someone to answer. The voices had ceased suddenly upon his knocking, so he knew they were aware of him. He heard a noise and looked down to the see the handle jiggling, and then the door popped open, just a crack, revealing the blank and innocent face of Castiel. His hair was sticking straight up, he was dressed down to his shirt and socks, and Dean could smell cigarette smoke wafting off of him. 

“Hello, Dean,” he said gruffly. “Can I help you with something?”

“Hellooooooo Deeaan!” he heard Charlene’s playful voice call out from inside the room. 

Dean’s eyes narrowed and he cleared his throat. He gestured with his head out toward the hall and said, “Cas, I need to talk to you for a minute. Alone.”

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows for a moment, turned his head back toward the room, and then looked back to Dean. “I am somewhat indisposed at the moment.”

Dean’s eyes flashed an incredulous emerald as he tried to control a sudden intake of breath. He did not like the emotion he felt creeping up his neck. It was too familiar, too easy to slip back into. He felt anger.

“Dammit, Cas!” he blurted. “I need--”

Just then the door was yanked open from the inside, out of Castiel’s hands, and he was forcibly shoved out of the room and into Dean by Charlene. She then slammed the door behind them. They could hear her call from the other side, “Do your thing, Blue! No hurry!”

Dean took a step back to disentangle himself from the angel. He ducked his chin in, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Blue? Who the fuck is Blue?”

Castiel nervously fingered the seam of the chambray shirt as he looked into Dean with infuriating innocence. “It is a nickname,” he said matter-of-factly, pushing through anxiety. “Like ‘Cas’ or ‘Sunshine’. A term of endearment--”

“I know what a fucking nickname is,  _ Castiel _ ,” he spat. He leaned in toward the angel and sniffed. “Have you been  _ smoking _ ?” he asked, voice lilting upward with incredulity.

Castiel’s body language changed in an instant. His muscled tensed as he blinked slowly twice. He tipped his head and curiously eyed Dean up and down. The shade of innocence had left his eyes as was replaced by an electric blue that bore into Dean uncomfortably. Dean was locked in place, anger idling, as Castiel stepped forward to close the gap between them. Dean had missed this, his terrifying, alien angel. He gulped.

Castiel spoke, all low tones and threatening reverberations. “I know what this is, Dean Winchester.”

“Do you?” Dean rasped, hoping Castiel hadn’t noticed the hairline fractures in his voice.

Castiel reached over and curled his long fingers around the lapel of Dean’s shirt with a careful, restrained movement, and leaned in to Dean’s ear. Dean didn’t dare move until the angel’s lips were nearly brushing the side of his face, and only then did he bring his hand up to run it along Castiel’s arm. The angel caught him by the wrist and held him tightly and then growled, “You are jealous.”

Dean’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound escaped. 

“You are jealous of Charlene. Do you have any idea how insulting that is to me?”

Dean struggled against Castiel’s grip, but the angel was immovable. “Let me go, Cas,” Dean said, aiming for threatening but landing somewhere near petulant instead. 

Castiel’s other arm came up and grasped Dean firmly by the shoulder. He furrowed his brows and shoved him roughly up against the wall. “I am not your property,” he rasped. “I can consort with whomever I please.” Suddenly there was a white flash and a cosmic thrumming, and Dean found himself slammed up against a storage shelf in the garage snared in Castiel’s inhuman grip. The angel pushed him roughly and stepped away, running his hand through his already mussed hair. “Why are you doing this, Dean?” the angel lamented, fury draining from his eyes. “Did I not make my needs known? Have you been confused this whole time?”

Dean’s eyes searched the angel’s and he knew he’d fucked up. Castiel was fraying at the edges, hollowing from the inside out. Dean had mistakenly thought that what had occurred on Pie Night would be enough to buoy the both of them through anything. Now he knew it wasn’t even enough to keep himself afloat through a couple of shared cigarettes and some laughing. When he didn’t say anything, Castiel continued, voice lowered and venturing back toward hostile.

“I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Finally, Dean responded. “Assumed what?”

Castiel’s eyes tightened. “That opening myself to you would change your fundamental nature.”

Dean’s head jerked back, buffaloed. “And what might that be?”

“Insecurity. Unable to communicate the most basic emotions other than lust and anger. Upon returning, I told you what I needed. Time and space. What I received instead was thinly veiled hostility, and sullen pouting when I resisted your attempts to touch my backside.”

“Dammit, Cas, I--”

“I think you mean  _ Castiel _ ,” sniped the angel, “considering the embargo on nicknames that you instituted five minutes ago.”

“Oh, so now you’re using sarcasm,” Dean retorted weakly. 

“Correct!” exclaimed Castiel with enough fervor to shake Dean to his very core. “And I dressed myself! I smoked cigarettes and danced and laughed, and I did all of those things without you! Your response? Anger. You are not happy for me. You are not proud of me.” He eyes sank to the stained cement floor. “You, you are just--”

“Petty,” mumbled Dean morosely.

Castiel’s eyes darted back upward. “I was going to say ‘an asshole’,” he said flatly.

“I can be both.”

“And you often are. And that is the problem.”

Dean felt pulled in a million different directions, disoriented and stinging like the first time Castiel yanked him through the celestial plane. Castiel was right. Pulsing just below the surface was a deep and profound insecurity that he’d been shellacking with layers of feigned patience, lust, indignance, and try-hardiness. Castiel was challenging him, pushing him far past the borders of the narrow sphere of his rationality. 

“Do you think you’re the only person this whole Lyssa thing has hurt?” Dean sputtered. “Have you even bothered, just once, to ask how I am doing? How Sam is doing? He almost died!  _ I _ almost died! Dude, we  _ all  _ almost died! You left! You didn’t tell me what was going on, but I tracked you down, pulled you out! I  _ saved  _ you from Charlene and  _ literal insanity _ and rather than giving me the time of day you spend all of it with the one person who  _ caused  _ all of this!” Dean’s chest was heaving as he sucked in enough air to keep the flames inside burning fiercely. 

Castiel’s eyes lit up, a low blue glow slowly but surely increasing in intensity as he took a step toward Dean. The overhead lights of the garage dimmed and pulsed, creating swirling shadows that highlighted the lines of anger creasing his face. A faint glow started emanating from within his torso and grew as he got closer to Dean. Dean’s eyes darted over the angel, and to the lights above, and he found himself flattening back against the supply shelf in fear.

Castiel’s voice reverberated through the garage as he spoke coldly, lowly. “Do you think I owe you something, Dean Winchester?” he growled. “Are love and affection nothing but currency to you, to be traded back and forth? Is that what a relationship is to you?” Castiel was all but pressed up against Dean, searing eyes and white light being the only thing he could see as the overhead illumination suddenly flared and dimmed. “I gave everything to you, again and again, never asking for anything in return. You ignored me for years, denied me your affection. When my feelings were finally requited, you managed to make it a whole week before demanding a return on your investment.” He narrowed his eyes menacingly. “You telling me you love me does not mean you own me.”

Dean swallowed hard, gripping the shelf behind him in an attempt to keep himself from shaking like a leaf in a gale. He felt his eyes sting with every one of Castiel’s utterances; every word scraped at the layers of varnish hiding his insecurities. He found he couldn’t speak, tongue thick and mouth parched by the heat of Castiel’s words. Instead he squeezed his eyes together and retreated inward.

_ Cas, Cas I am so sorry, _ he prayed.  _ I don’t own you. You owe me nothing. You are everything to me and I am nothing without you. You are terrifying and beautiful and being apart from you is the worst kind of hurt. I’m a friggin’ idiot doing the best I can and like always I’m failing, I’m fallin’ apart without you. _

With his eyes closed he could feel the heat coming off Castiel intensify, a bright light shining pink through his closed lids. A crackle of static raced through his extremities and with a whoosh he felt their air around them displace. Suddenly, Castiel grabbed him roughly by the lapels, buttons snapping and seams ripping with the force of his grip, and he yanked Dean into him, full lips roughly catching his own with the desperate ferocity of an electrical storm. Dean’s eyes fluttered open but all he could see was white and blue and black, all he could hear was hissing and humming and the rustling of feathers. He let his eyes roll back into his head as Castiel tore open his shirt the rest of the way and slotted one leg in between his own. The angel drove his pelvis forward and up into Dean’s, and Dean felt what little was left of his anger melt away. He opened his mouth slightly, yielding to Castiel’s persistent, burning tongue, and brought his shaky hands forward to Castiel’s hips, but the angel snatched him by the wrists lighting-quick and pinned them above his head. He rolled his hips up again and Dean could feel him, impossibly hard and taunting against the button fly of his hand-me-down jeans.

The long, strong fingers of Castiel’s left hand kept Dean’s wrists firmly in place as his right hand made quick work of Dean’s fly. The angel broke his kiss leaving Dean breathless, then he pressed into his ear with words echoing from a vast plane beyond the one they currently inhabited. 

“ _ Say it, _ ” he growled. “ _ Say it aloud. _ ”

“W-What?” stammered Dean weakly.

“ _ Tell me what you really think. _ ” With that, Castiel reached down into Dean’s pants, palming him through his underwear. His touch was electric, a rolling blackout short-circuiting his thoughts and emotions.

“You owe me nothing,” he whispered weakly. Castiel nipped at his neck, his collarbone, teasing the outline of his cock over his boxer briefs. “You are beautiful.”

Castiel slid his hand up and then down into Dean’s underwear. Dean’s knees buckled under the exquisite static that surged into him as the angel wrapped around him and pumped with agonizingly slow, measured strokes, and were it not for Castiel’s inhuman grip on his wrists he would have collapsed to the floor.

Dean let out a low, keening moan, hips kicking up into Castiel’s hand unbidden. “Y-You are terrifying. It hurts when you’re gone.”

Suddenly, Castiel removed his hand from Dean’s pants in order to roughly yank them down to the floor. The tingle of ozone seared his skin with invigorating pinpricks of pleasure, and his hissed at the sudden sensation. “ _ Keep talking, _ ” Castiel growled.

“I fall apart without without you, babe,” he whimpered. 

He felt Castiel release his wrists. “ _ Do not move your hands, _ ” he commanded, and Dean dared not disobey.

Castiel’s hands kneaded up his chest, each touch a burning reminder to Dean of just how small he was in the grand scheme of things, that in the vastness of creation Castiel had chosen him. Castiel had helped him, served him, fought alongside him, saved him. The angel’s fingertips grazed his nipples and he fought in vain to bite back a moan. 

Castiel dropped to his knees, fingertips sliding down Dean’s sides to roughly grab his hips. The slight brush of feathers against his sides caused Dean to buck forward and Castiel made no effort to suppress his own low, reverberating moan. “ _ Is that all you have to say? _ ” he growled.

In a flash, one of Castiel’s hands found purchase around the base of Dean’s cock while the other slid teasingly behind his balls, gently caressing Dean’s perineum. Dean shuddered, but didn’t dare move as Castiel’s tongue teased up the length of Dean’s member until reaching the tip, flicking into the slit and savoring the precum that had collected there.

“I will never forgive myself for--” he gasped as Castiel slid the tip of his cock into the slick heat of his mouth and sucked gently, swirling with a deliberate, taunting tongue. “--for letting you think I felt anything less than love for you. For making you feel small. For--” Castiel took him in suddenly, deeply, his beautiful, giving lips speaking volumes without making a sound. 

Castiel hummed, and with it came another wave of rolling static that brought tears to Dean’s eyes, and a gust of wind rushed over them both as Castiel’s wings agitated the air. 

“I’m sorry for pushing you away. Not respecting your boundaries, not--” Dean groaned, loudly, as Castiel picked up the pace and snaked a cool finger backward to slot between Dean’s cheeks. 

“Babe,” Dean sighed, “please let me touch you.” Dean’s eyes stung; he tried to sniff back tears but found himself too lost in sensation and emotion to keep them contained. Castiel slid off of him slickly, and the lack of his heat caused Dean to whimper. Castiel grabbed Dean’s legs one by one and yanked his boots off, then tugged off his pants and cast them aside. He rose, tracing the contours of Dean’s abdomen upward all the way up to his shirt, which he tugged roughly over his head until all that remained was Dean, bare and vulnerable, pressed up against a shelf with tears in his eyes and bathed in Castiel’s unearthly luminosity. The angel backed away from Dean, who blinked in the bright light to see Castiel yank off his own clothes. His glorious black wings folded behind him, shimmering prism-like, phasing in and out of the material plane with a hiss as he removed his shirts and cast them to the floor. His bare torso pulsed, the blinding light dimming to an ethereal glow, but the blue fire of his eyes still burned hotly as they surveyed Dean hungrily. He slowly, deliberately undid his button fly and stepped out of his pants, and then commanded, “Come.”

Dean was compelled forward, and in his haste he stumbled into Castiel who caught him, flipped him around, and pushed him roughly up against the trunk of the ruined Impala. Dean could feel that Castiel was painfully, impossibly hard with want, which only deepened his own desire. Castiel’s wings unfurled with dominance, leaving Dean feeling small, breathless, and needy. There was nothing left in him to protest as Castiel reached down to grab him under his thighs to deposit him atop the trunk. With a gentle flap of the wings Castiel pressed in, pushing his strong shoulders into Dean’s knees, spreading him. 

“Cas,” he whispered, wild eyes wet and wanting. 

Castiel’s lips parted as his face softened, and his eyes that had burned so fiercely before dimmed to a soothing, cerulean glow. He pushed into Dean, circling an arm around his back to pull him for a gentle and reassuring kiss. As their lips met Dean could see Castiel’s glorious wings unfurl to their full and breathtaking extension. The onyx feathers hissed with static and shone like mirrors, sending rainbow shards of celestial light dancing across the dim garage. Pinned atop the Impala, Dean felt Castiel’s cool, voltaic glow coil and pulse around him, seeping into every nook and crevice. His head lolled back, pink tongue darting out to wet warm and wanting lips before arching forward to kiss rougher, harder. Time ceased being a constant as Dean felt himself fill with the overwhelming, shimmering pulse of Castiel’s grace. 

The angel focused his intent. He pressed cool tendrils along Dean's pelvis, seeking and finding the quivering ring of muscle that had elicited such a powerful reaction from Dean while they were in Lyssa’s dream state. He didn't know what to expect now, in the flesh as they were, but the involuntary kick of Dean's hips combined with a deep and unearthly moan emboldened the angel to push again, licking in as he pinned Dean’s legs with his shoulders and a flap of his wings. 

Dean writhed under Castiel’s persistent, cool ministrations, the slick white light slowly stretching and soothing him from the inside out. He wanted to keep speaking, keep apologizing, but all he could manage was a whine as he thrashed involuntarily under the resolute and vice-like immovability of Castiel. 

Castiel spoke, voice still resonant with an extraplanar quality, but soft, yielding. The anger and disappointment has boiled off, leaving only a sad longing. He spoke in breathy, hushed tones and slowed himself, allowing Dean a moment to catch his breath.

“Do you want this, Dean?”

Dean nodded emphatically, back arching as Castiel ever so slowly pulsed within Dean yet again.

“Tell me,” Castiel purred, voice resonating within his coiling grace, causing Dean to gasp. 

“Cas,  _ please _ ,” Dean hissed, arching again. “I want this. Want  _ you _ .  _ Always _ .”

Castiel’s eyes flared again and he renewed his efforts with a soft grunt. A bright flare pressed inside Dean, sliding along his prostate and renewing his writhing. Castiel licked in again, and again, the slick burn opening him and filling him up. Dean struggled to keep his senses, but retained enough to reach down between his legs into the blinding white between them to wrap his fingers around Castiel. The angel’s eyes rolled back into his head at the touch of Dean’s strong, callused hand, and his hips bucked forward.

“Want you, babe,” Dean whimpered. “Need  _ you _ .” 

Castiel nodded wordlessly in understanding. He lined himself up, unsure of what to do but desperate to please Dean. He ever so slowly eased himself into Dean’s opening as he gripped him firmly by the hips. Dean’s fingers dug into Castiel’s forearms and he didn’t bother stifling his voice any longer.

“Cas!” he bellowed, every muscle in his body tensing as he was filled to the brim with the grace and glorious cock of his lover. He didn’t know it could be like this, feel like this. He didn’t realize how empty he’d felt before, didn’t have anything to compare it to until that moment, frozen in time amongst the rainbow scatter of dancing lights. He closed his eyes and held on for dear life as Castiel took control. 

The angel set the pace, pushing Dean down, down, down onto the Impala, causing the suspension to push back and whine. Castiel kept hitting the same spot, sliding cool and slick, and Dean could hear himself make noises but wasn’t sure if they were fully formed words or just desperate, grateful nonsense.  Between the bright hiss of electricity and intermittent gusts of wind kicked up by Castiel’s wings, Dean barely noticed the angel reach under him to hoist him up off the trunk of the car and into his arms. He didn’t register wrapping his legs around Castiel’s solid torso as the angel held him, thrusting up and into him like he weighed nothing at all. In the exquisite noise and light and rapturous sliding, the only thing Dean could verify was the compounding wave of euphoria that pounded into him as he reached behind Castiel’s back to card his fingers through the long, whispering feathers. With that, the dimmed overhead lights flared in time with their climax, shattering sparks down onto their sweat-slicked bodies until nothing remained but Castiel’s cool glow illuminating them on the concrete floor of the garage.


	12. Poorly Done Research

Charlene sat on the bed, one leg folded under her as she scanned the quad-ruled notebook, reviewing Castiel’s story. Smiles and frowns flickered alternatingly across her face and she tried to imagine his story as he experienced it. As she progressed, the frowns outnumbered the smiles until she opted to press her lips together lest they get the best of her.

Dean and Castiel were terrible for each other.

They never communicated. 

They withheld secrets from one another so often, and frequently to one another’s detriment. 

They made stupid, needless sacrifices, almost like they were competing for a of trophy for misguided altruism.

They’d beaten one another to bloody pulps.

They’d pushed one another away.

They’d danced around their feelings out of… self sacrifice? To Charlene, it seemed more like cowardice. Fear of rejection. Fear of needing someone and then losing them. 

Was it better now?

If so, why?

They’d finally opened up to one another, shared their feelings, but was it enough? Could it ever be enough? How many feathers needed to be piled on one side of scale to counterbalance the boulder on the other? 

Dean was not happy when Castiel opened the door. His feelings were thinly veiled at best, but Charlene knew from her conversations with Castiel that Dean was used to burying things deep, deep down. Layers had been stripped away, leaving something fresh and raw and difficult to conceal. He was jealous, jealous of her, and it hurt. She’d caused enough trouble, put them all in terrible danger, and now they were housing her, looking after her.

She snapped the notebook closed in disgust and just as she tossed it on the bed the lights in the room surged and dimmed, the bunker humming disapprovingly. She raised an eyebrow as the lights returned to normal. She shivered as she stood, the unhealthy dose of caffeine purring through her veins like cold spiders. She walked to the door to pop her head out, and made eye contact with Sam, whose own head poked around the corner, face curious and concerned.

“Hi,” he called out. Nothing more.

She stepped out into the hall and gave a small wave. “Hi, yourself,” she said with a grin. She exhaled, a small, relieved puff through her nostrils. She’d been cooped up for too long. She’d missed him, missed him terribly. She walked toward him, and as she did he came around the corner to meet her. They stopped about three feet apart.

“Hi,” he said again, softer this time.

“Hi,” she replied, tone matching his.

He sniffed. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Only sometimes,” she replied. “When I engage in creative endeavors. Does it bother you?”

Curious regard ghosted over Sam’s face as he shrugged. “Nah.” He shifted awkwardly, nervously. ”What creative endeavors?”

“I’m helping Castiel with a project, a tape for Dean.”

Sam’s eyes blew wide and a smirk curled on his face. “Really?” he said with incredulity and a pinch of smarm.

“Yes,” she said with uncharacteristic melancholy. “Castiel, he really loves him, y’know? Just doesn’t know how to say it.”

“I’ve known for a while,” Sam confessed to his feet. “I… I never knew what to do, how to help. I was too paralyzed to… I didn’t want to make things worse.” His eyes met Charlene’s. “It took Cas admitting it to my face to prompt me to any sort of action. And even then, I was… ineffective. You’re the one who finally cracked it. I don’t know how, but you lit a fire under the guy. He was, it was--”

“Awesome?” she said with a grin.

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “I wish you coulda seen it. You’d have been so proud.”

Charlene looked around and then leaned in, whispering around the back of her hand. “Y’think that’s what’s happening right now? Them bein’ ‘awesome’?”

The lights flickered again.

Sam cleared his throat. “Let’s think about something else, alright?”

“Okay, Sammy. Whatcha got? It’s gonna take a lot to bleach my brain of visions of hot angel sex,” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her eyes were bright again. Her smile, her real smile, was back. Sam ached just looking at her. He stepped in toward her so they were just inches apart, and hesitantly ran his hand up the back of her arm. She leaned into his touch, leaned into him as he tipped his head down and brushed her hair behind her ear. She hummed.

He leaned in and whispered, “Wanna look at some lore with me?”

She poked him in the chest with her index finger and gently pushed him backwards as she grinned. “After all this time, you still know exactly how to get my motor running, Sammy. It feels like we’ve just met.”

He pursed his lips and looked away bashfully, and suddenly she was upon him, all stale smoke and yellow flavor and joy, brightening the hall as the lights dimmed again. They were a tangle of long limbs groping and seeking, never staying in one place long enough to find a home. They were the desert and the oasis, fingers combing through hair and holding on for dear life as the sandstorm blew in.

Suddenly, she had him pressed against the wall with curious strength. Her immovability caused a flush to build in Sam’s hips. He pushed back into her to no avail, and instead opted to kiss her long, pale neck with teeth and tongue until she arched back with a groan.

“Tell me about the lore,” she moaned softly. “What… do we get to read?”

Sam spoke, broken and breathless between kisses. “Fairies… magical bargains… verifying the validity of… poorly done research… cross-referencing…”

One of Charlene’s hands made its way around and back, sliding along his toned backside for an aggressive squeeze that momentarily took his breath away. With that hand and considerable strength of intent, she pulled herself in closer. She could feel the heat building between them, and the stiff outline of his want pressed impatiently against the inside of his pants.

“What else have you be reading?” she purred and she rolled her hips into his.

“I, uh--” he stammered, “Ouranos… Nyx…”

She froze. “What did you say?” Her voice was suddenly small, sad again.

Sam swallowed hard. “I, uh…”

“Have you been researching Lyssa? This whole time?”

He couldn’t manage to meet her steel blue gaze, and instead just gave a small nod.

She didn’t speak for a moment. Her eyes took on a quality Sam rarely saw in anyone, a sort of searching gratitude, something between self loathing and relief. “So, I’ve been ignoring you, processing, not giving you the time of day, and this whole time you’ve been helping me anyway?” 

His hazel hesitantly mingled with her blue, beaming his own undefinable emotions.

“You’re a nice guy, Sam Winchester,” she whispered. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You should know, historically my relationships don’t end well,” he said, voice dark and soft.

“I figured as much,” she replied, hands finding the small of his back.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers. “Everyone dies.”

“That’s true; everyone does die.”

“Because of me.”

She cleared her throat softly, then recited something from memory. “Because of its tremendous solemnity death is the light in which great passions, both good and bad, become transparent, no longer limited by outward appearances.”

Sam sighed almost inaudibly, eyelids flickering.

“You like that, Sammy?” She asked with a small smile.

He nodded.

“Kirkegaard.”

“It sounded familiar.”

“I think it applies.”   
“You, you almost died before.”

“No, Sam.  _ You  _ almost died. You  _ all  _ almost died, because of  _ me _ . Because of…” she took a step back and gestured with her hand up and down her torso, “this. Whatever I am. That’s why I’ve been hiding.” She put one hand on the small of her back and another cupping the back of her neck. “I wondered if I should even stay at all. Cut my losses. Go back to Seattle. Run.”

“I’d have found you,” he said softly, realizing how creepy it sounded but saying it anyhow. 

“I know. You are a Google savant, surpassing even my own impressive skills. How you got WiFi in this place is beyond me.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Well, actually, it isn’t all tha--”

Her finger shot out and stopped his lips, a spreading burn that darkened his cheeks. “Shhh, Sam. I like to pretend that it’s magic.”

He nodded, mollified, as she pulled her finger away. He reached into his pocket and pulled his phone. He swiped the screen with his thumb as she took a step back and stood with her hands on her hips, eyeing him with amusement. He tapped the screen then said, “think fast,” as he tossed the phone to her. Just as she caught it, music piped out. 

_ Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down,  _ __   
_ Never gonna run around and desert you,  _ __   
_ Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye,  _ _   
_ __ Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you.

“Did you just rickroll me?” she said in faux disgust. 

He waved his hand in an arc above his head and said, with an air of wonder, “Magic.”


	13. Past Lives

After a time, Castiel uncurled himself from his spot nestled up against Dean on the floor of the garage and rose to a seated position. Dean mumbled something contentedly that he could not make out as he pushed himself to standing. He searched the floor, illuminated poorly by the single remaining overhead light that had not been burnt out in the throes of their passion. He found his jeans and underwear and slid them on, careful to sidestep the broken glass strewn about. He then turned, shirtless, back toward Dean who pushed himself up to sitting with a lazy smile on his face. It was then that Castiel saw it.

The Blue Angel.

His full lips, still pink from his breathless encounter with Dean, fell open slightly as he strode across the garage to the vehicle. He walked right past Dean who languidly raised his hand to brush against his lover’s leg, but Castiel didn’t acknowledge the gesture. When he arrived at the car he smoothed his hand over the rear fender in awe; the car looked brand new. The paint was immaculate, the window glass perfect. The trunk was completely repaired; all signs of the collision were simply gone. Castiel leaned his head into the open passenger side window and breathed in deeply; the car even smelled new. He turned back to Dean who rose shakily, using the bumper of the Impala for support. Castiel stared at the contours of his lover’s freckled body with wide eyes from under a furrowed brow, and Dean couldn’t help a smug smile from unfolding warmly across his face. 

“Whaddya think, Cas?” asked Dean with a hint of cockiness, despite being able to read all of Castiel’s thoughts as if they were telegraphed across his face. 

Suddenly, the angel was upon him, scooping him up and flying him though the hissing, opaque whiteness until he felt himself deposited roughly atop the mattress in his own bedroom, Castiel straddling him from above.

“Jeez, Cas! Warn a guy!” Dean protested weakly, but in actuality Castiel’s bold and cocky side was the one Dean found most irresistible. He loved being challenged, being tested by the angel, and had been since he first laid eyes on him in that barn so many years ago. While being just a hair shorter than Dean, he knew that Castiel was a great deal heavier. While Dean was muscular in his own right, Castiel was thick. His torso was solidly muscled, broad, and Dean relished trailing his fingers straight down his sides to Castiel’s wide hip bones and strong, substantive thighs. He knew he couldn’t wriggle out from under the angel if he tried, and just the thought of it caused arousal to bristle provocatively in the bowl of his hips. He rolled upwards, half hard already as he passed against the stiff denim of Castiel’s pants. Castiel hummed with approval.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Castiel intoned, voice low and lust-roughed. He shifted his weight slightly, pinning Dean’s hips completely between his thighs so that Dean had no recourse but to whimper breathlessly, unable to succumb to his natural urge to thrust.

“I, uh,” Dean stammered in a husky, distracted tone, “wanted it to be a surprise. I thought about telling you, but you were…” he trailed off, eyes rolling to the side. “Absent.” He brought his focus back to Castiel, voice softening with longing. “You were gone, man.”

Dean could feel Castiel’s weight shift again, this time relinquishing some control back to Dean. He felt Castiel’s eyes search his face for more, so he continued, have absently palming his lover’s thighs. 

“I know you needed space. Hell, you probably still do. I never was good with solitary time, with being alone. There is always someone around: Sammy, you, fucking Crowley. I can keep myself busy, productive, but to be honest, I’m just--”

“Codependent?” Castiel offered gruffly, cutting him off.

Dean swallowed and nodded as Castiel slid down and off of him, opting instead to curl up next to him throw an arm across his chest. He reached down to pull the blanket at the foot of the bed up and over them.

They laid in silence for a while. After they had thoroughly warmed themselves under the blanket, Castiel began, voice softer and yielding. “The most painful part of knowing you was being apart from you when all I really wanted was the opposite. All the times I ignored your prayers, when I stayed behind in Purgatory, when I chose Heaven’s Host over you. Those were my biggest mistakes. I have always been stronger when I’ve fought by your side.” 

He rose, propping himself up on an elbow so he could look upon Dean’s face as he spoke, voice increasing in gravity. “I fell from heaven, and I fell for you, and I wouldn’t go back even if they welcomed me with open arms. I don’t see myself ever going back, that is until you eventually die. Then… then I will find a way. You will never be alone again.”

Dean pressed his lips together into something like a sad smile. “You think about that? About me dying?”

Castiel nodded, a small affirmation contradicted by a flash of pained azure that briefly flared in his eyes. “I have existed for millennia, over a timeline that is difficult for any human to fully grasp. My time with you, it is a blip, a brief flicker in the neverending ribbon of time, and yet it has been the best part of my life. The part that finally gave me meaning, purpose.”

“Cas…” Dean started, but the angel continued unabated.

“It is as if my life hadn’t really been a life. Not until I met you. You taught me what living means. What real devotion and honor are. How to fight for what is right, not just what is commanded of me. You, Dean Winchester, taught me what love is, and now that I know, it is as if my past life has been invalidated. That was not living, not really.”

Dean sat up just enough to gently cup the side of Castiel’s face and gently guide him back down to the bed. He rolled to his side to face the angel, gold-flecked eyes searching and sad. “Your life,” he said in a husky voice, “has always been good. Valid. Important. I know I’ve not done the greatest job of reminding you of that fact. For that, I won’t ever forgive myself.” Dean saw Castiel’s eyes shine with emotion threatening to spill over, and darted his head in to sear a hot, grateful kiss to into his lover’s soft, lush mouth. Castiel’s eyelids fluttered closed and he sighed.

“Cas?” Dean murmured as he finally pulled his mouth away, “I know you have your own room now, but… do you think you might want to come stay in mine tonight?”

Castiel slid a leg between Dean’s and leaned his head forward until their foreheads were touching. “How about you come stay in mine instead?”

“It’s a date,” Dean said with a smile.


	14. High Tower

“So, you want to go back to my mom’s house?” Charlene asked in a voice heavy with what Sam could only guess was disappointment.

They had moved their conversation to the kitchen. Charlene had hopped onto the counter, long legs swinging slightly, ankles crossed. Sam leaned next to her, and they spoke not to one another but to the wall beyond.

“I mean, yeah. I think we need to. Whatever happened, whatever  _ this  _ is, I don’t think it’s over. And I’ve exhausted my resources here, really I have. Dean and I--”

“Wait,” she said, sliding a hand up his shoulder. “Dean has been helping you?”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I mean, as of today. He’s… had other things on his mind.”

“Castiel,” she replied, dropping her hand back to the counter.

“For one,” he mumbled, attention back to the wall.

“Sounds like they might be working out some things right now,” she smirked

“Who knows?” he shrugged. He pivoted sideways, suddenly and with purpose. “Y’know, Dean keeps calling you ‘an unknown quantity’--”

“Does he now?” she asked with wry curiosity.

“Yeah, but him and Cas?” he replied, thumbing behind him toward the open door. “That’s just as new. Just as unknown. A week ago they were so hot for each other they were practically a fire hazard, and then Cas almost died and Dean went full mama bear, and then they come back and Castiel all but disappears, and now they are arguing and, and--”

“They’re fucking, Sam,” she said, sliding off the counter to stand and face him. “Full circle.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it behind his ear in an attempt at self-soothing. “Are you saying this is how it’s gonna be now? An endless cycle of fucking and angst and hiding and posturing?”

“And fucking.”

“Jesus.”

“Sammy,” she said his name softly, trying to reassure, “that’s textbook.” She rested a gentle hand on his elbow. “It’s been awhile since you’ve actually been in a relationship, huh?” 

“Is that what a relationship with you is like?” he asked, furrowed brows over puppy dog eyes.

“Hmmm, not exactly. Historically speaking, my relationships don’t end well.”

“Does everyone die?”

She gave his arm a little squeeze. “Well, let’s just say not everyone gets out with their heart intact.”

“What do you mean?” he replied softly, leaning into her touch.

“I… I’m reasonably attractive, in a gangly, nerdy, charismatic sorta way.”

Sam scoffed. “Reasonably?”

“Yes, Sammy, within reason,” she clarified with a bottom note of smarm. “So I’ve had dates. Some might call me a ‘serial monogamist’. But I, well… I get bored.”

“Bored?”

She slid her hand down to take Sam’s, long fingers intertwining. “Yeah. I just couldn’t find someone peddling what I needed.”

“And what might that be?” he said with a slight tilt of the head.

“I think you know.”

“Drama,” he said flatly.

“Bingo. All the guys and gals I met, they were normal. Milquetoast. Healthy.” She began to swing their joined hands slightly back and forth, and Sam knew she was anxious. “Life with mom? That was anything but. When dad moved me across the country he was emotionally checked out, lost without mom. Going from intense over-stimulation to nothing at all, well it was galvanizing.”

Sam nodded, following. 

She released his hand to walk around the small kitchen island, propping herself with both hands as she leaned forward and spoke emphatically. “I knew what I craved, and I sought it from my books. No one could compare with a Prince Hamlet or an Eowen or a Hester Prynne. In the real world, I actively did  _ not  _ seek partners, yet they found me anyhow. I tried, Sam, I really did. I thought, ‘well, maybe this one will be interesting,’ but they never were. None of them could hold my attention for longer than six months.” She cleared her throat and stabbed down at the counter with her index finger. “‘When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.’”

“What is that from?” Sam asked.

“Wilde, Dorian Grey.”

“Sufficiently grim.”

“Indeed.”

He paused for a second, the slid a large hand to lightly graze across the surface of the counter. “So, then what does that make me?”

“Different.”

“How so?”

“How can you even ask that?”

“I’m just…” he sighed, then broke eye contact. “You barely know me.”

“What are you talking about?” she exclaimed, coming around the island, tipping her head, trying to catch his gaze. “You told me your whole journey!”

His eyes flickered to meet hers, and then away. “Yes, you know the surface me. But do you know what’s below? My flaws? How I cope with loss? My fear? Regrets? What I’m proud of?” He brought his eyes back, and Charlene could feel something new, an intensity to his gaze that she hadn’t felt before. “Or am I just different enough from other people to hold your interest for a month or so? And then you’ll move on to the next... shiny thing.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, locked in his gradually softening stare. She exhaled in a long sigh before replying. “But that’s the thing, Sammy. I want to know. I want to know everything about you.”

He cleared his throat and looked down as he shoved his hands into his pockets. She slowly treaded toward him, her own hands deep in the pockets of her sweatshirt. 

“And it’s not because you’re some shiny thing. You are a beat up, broken down thing. A bent bottlecap that’s been trampled underfoot.” She toed at his shoe with her own boot-clad foot, and their eyes met again. She’d snuck up on him, somehow only inches away. 

“You are like me, imperfect,” she said, voice low and knowing. “Regular people, they can’t understand. They will never understand. You do. You know. Perry didn’t know. Jermaine, Mariana, Bob… none of my exes could ever understand. Because they are  _ normal _ . We keep ourselves locked away, but I know we’re both waiting for a hero to come rescue us.”

In a fluid motion her hands were suddenly out of her pockets travelling upwards, along Sam’s neck and up through his hair. She cradled his head in firm adoration, and he couldn’t look away even if he’d wanted to. 

“I want to know everything about you,” she insisted with a quiet desperation, “and I want to tell you everything about me, and then finally neither of us will have to be alone anymore. I’ll climb your high tower, you just have to let me in the window. Will you let me in, Sam?”

He slid a hand around to the small of her back and gently pulled her in until they we flush against one another. He leaned in and recited into her ear from memory, “I don’t think man was meant to attain happiness so easily. Happiness is like those palaces in fairy tales whose gates are guarded by dragons--” 

“We must fight in order to conquer it,” she finished. “Dumas.”

He nodded. Of course she knew.

“Have you ever fought a dragon?” she whispered against his ear.

He chuckled a little. “Um… yes?”

“Did you win?”

“Actually, yeah. I did.”

She slid her lips across his cheek, causing a shiver to roll through him. “Well,” she said, lips grazing against his own, “then this should be a piece of cake.”


	15. The Hole

Some time later, Dean emerged to find Sam and Charlene in the library, her long legs draped across his lap as they sat next to one another at the table. Charlene reclined back in her chair, holding a book aloft and nearly above her face, lips pressed thin in concentration. Sam was reading on his laptop, the same thin line creasing his own face. 

“Sam,” Dean broke in, a little louder than he meant to and more than enough to snap his brother to attention. 

“Dean, there you are,” Sam responded, relieved. He was about to say more when, in one smooth motion, Charlene lifted her legs off Sam’s lap and spun her swivel chair around to face Dean.

“We need to talk,” she said sternly, leveling the book in her hand straight at Dean’s face.

“Do we?” Dean lobbed back in a tone that immediately put Charlene at ease; she knew the sloppy remnants of any lover’s quarrel had dissipated.

She stood, snapped the book shut, and set it on the table before marching over to Dean. “My mom’s house. You think we need to go back there.” She cocked her head slightly to one side, obviously having taken a lesson from the angel. “I, well… I’m okay with it. I talked it over with Sammy. If he says that’s the only place we have left to look for answers, well, that’s where we need to go. It’s just gonna fucking suck,” she groaned, stretching the uh sounds to the breaking point.

“You don’t have to go with us, Charlene,” Sam piped up. He stood, the three of them triangulating, before he continued. “Dean and I can go and you can stay back with Cas.”

“Nope, absolutely not,” she barked, dark lashes narrowing. “I know that house way better than either of you. I know her books, her shelves. Hell, I’m reasonably sure I have a decent understanding of her ‘system’,” she emphasized with finger quotes, “though she’d kill me if she knew I’d messed--” She paused, realizing. Her posture slackened slightly. “I mean, she tried,” she said softly, nose wrinkling to suppress a hidden something.

Sam smoothed a hand across her mid back, and she relaxed back into it. “Whatever you think is best, I’m cool with that,” he soothed. 

“That settles it,” Dean announced, turning toward the hall, “let’s grab the angel and head out.”

Charlene didn’t budge. “I don’t want Cas to come,” her voice came out uncharacteristically small. Not petulant, but fragile.

It was Dean’s turn to cock his head.

“I just mean,” she muttered, before finding her intent and spearing Dean with her eyes, “He’s been through enough. He’s helped me enough. He’s helped all of us enough. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Sam cleared his throat and said nothing. Dean waited a beat, then replied. “He ain’t gonna like that. You’re gonna have to be the one to tell him.”

Charlene nodded. “I’ll meet you at the garage.” She then brushed past Dean to walk down the hall to find Castiel. She found him cross legged on the bed back in her room, wearing jeans, and a dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up layered over one of Dean’s AC/DC shirts. He had her headphones on, laptop open, scribbling furiously in the quad rule notebook with a cigarette badly in need of ashing protruding from his mouth. She plucked it from between his lips, a gesture he barely seemed to register. She knocked off a head of ash into one of the yellow cans littering the room, then took a drag herself. 

“You have to stay here,” she said as she exhaled. 

Castiel pulled the earpiece from his head. “You are going back to the house.” It was a statement, not a question. She nodded. 

“And you expect me to stay here.” Again, a statement. She nodded again.

“Why?” Finally, a question. His blue eyes flashed for a moment. A wound.

“Because I love you and I would prefer you to not hurt anymore on my account. I’ve got two Winchesters to make sure I don’t start the End of Days or whatever else might be my particular dysfunction. I want you to,” she paused to take another drag. Castiel gestured, fingers curling as a request. She handed the cigarette back as she continued. “I want you to relax,” she said on the exhale. “Work on your mix. You do you, Cas. Okay? For me?”

He nodded, took one more drag of the cigarette, stubbed it out, removed the headphones, and stood. “I will walk you out,” he said matter-of-factly. He took her hand and she was suddenly stepping through hissing whiteness to find herself in front of the door that led to the garage. 

“There you are,” said Dean, who stood leaning with the flat of his hand pressed against the wall. Sam was there, too, hands pocketed, leaning back casually. Dean looked at Castiel knowingly, and the angel gave a small nod. Dan cleared his throat, then mumbled under his breath, “here goes nothing,” as he threw open the door to the garage. 

Charlene stepped through the door and hopped down the few short steps as she zipped up the front of her sweatshirt. “Boys, I’m sorry you had to wait so long for me to--” She stopped dead in her tracks when she reached the bottom of the stairs.

Dean quietly followed her down the steps, never taking his eyes off her now frozen body. He was afraid to breathe.  _ What if she hates it? Did I overstep? I shoulda left well enough alone. I shou-- _

Suddenly she was moving. She darted around the Impala across the freshly swept floor and nearly collided with the Camaro. She leaned down into it, gliding her hands along the contours of the trunk of the car, then across the rear fenders. She ducked down to look through the door glass, shading her eyes from the fresh bulbs burning overhead. She grabbed the handle and yanked, pushed the passenger seat forward, and scrambled into the back, long limbs folding awkwardly. 

The two men and the angel followed, eyes narrowing in concern. Castiel came around the other side of the car and opened the driver’s door, moving the seat so he could crouch down and better see what Charlene was doing. She was smoothing her hands along the floor of the backseat frantically, searching for a seam in the carpet. She found what she needed and started to yank, pulling up the new upholstery.

“Hey, what the hell?” barked Dean, tone unchecked. He had come up behind Castiel to peer down into the car. Castiel’s head whipped around and the look he leveled was more than withering enough to communicate to Dean that a very grave mistake had been made.

Charlene had the carpet almost completely pulled up. She muttered to herself, fingering an archipelago of welds that held in place a smooth sheet of steel, completely covering what had once been merely a rust-edged hole in the bottom of the car.

“Fuck,” she spat, slapping the cold steel with the flat of her hand. Suddenly, her hand was a fist, and she struck the floor again, harder. “NOOO!” This time it was a yell, the wrenching sound of a hundred carefully laid sandbags overcome by waters too high. She scrambled backwards out of the car and into Sam, who had stood quietly by unsure of what to do. She spun around and he barely recognized her. He’d seen her cry, slight sniffing and measured tears, a stark contrast to what he was looking at now. Her eyes were red, angry. Tears streamed down her face like a torrent, and her jaw was clenched hard as she choked back sobs. Sam was frozen, he didn’t know if he should embrace her or flee. She whipped around and her eyes met Dean’s. He had come around the back of the Camaro, palms out in deference, and he spoke in a soft, low tone.

“Hey, hey, just tell me what I did wrong and I can fix it.” His eyes flickered down to see her hands ball up into fists.

She choked out words in between sobs from behind gritted teeth. “Why! Why did you do that? Why… why did that need fixing!?” The last word came out like a lash, and with it the air in the garage grew heavy. “Some things are just broken! Sometimes there are holes and imperfections!” She paused, exhalation transforming to hyperventilation, her pale skin now a ruddy field of crimson. “WHY?!” she screamed again. The light of the garage dimmed, and the air took on a red of its own.

“Charlene,” Sam said quietly, causing her to whip around. As she did, Sam felt himself thrown back against the Impala by the unseen force of her intent.

“Hey!” Dean called out sharply, and he too found himself thrown backwards and down onto the ground as the air thickened with red haze. Sam and Dean felt their ears pop, as if changing elevation. Both struggled to stand but couldn’t. All they could do was stare in fear at the looming figure of Charlene, shaking and sobbing in furious despair as tendrils of vermilion coiled at her feet.

“CHARLENE.” Castiel stepped forward and in front of Dean, voice rough and reverberating. The blue glow of his eyes was the only thing that successfully cut through the haze.

“NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE EVEN HAPPENED IF I HADN’T MET YOU!” she raged, throwing the full force of her intent at the angel. Rather than be thrown back, it was as if her wave of anger unfurled him. Dean could feel the hiss of ozone competing with the oppressive miasma, and Sam stared in wonder as two huge, black wings unfurled from behind Castiel. Arcs of static danced along each feather as a fierce glow built up within his torso. He strode towards her, and as he did both Sam and Dean had to cover their ears as Charlene let out a low, reverberating scream, the sound of the earth itself rending. At its crescendo, there was a blinding flash of white that cut through the red, then nothing but the silent dark.

Dean awoke to see his brother’s face. He was speaking, but all Dean could hear was a high pitched whine, a ringing in his ears. He blinked, shook his head, and then suddenly he could understand.

“Dean! Dean, are you alright?” gasped Sam, disoriented and out of breath in his own right. He kneeled over his prone brother, shaking him roughly by the shoulders. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean winced, bringing the heel of his hand up to his temple. He looked around, realizing that they were in the garage. But why were they on the ground? What had--

Suddenly Dean was bolt upright with a fistful of Sam’s shirt, eyes wild. “Where are they? Sam! Where did they go?”

Sam sighed, concern creasing his face. “I, I have no idea. Maybe Cas teleported them somewhere? Charlene, she was…”

“Dude,” Dean grunted as they struggled to their feet, “Your girlfriend was about to go super saiyan!” He dusted off the front of his jeans in two swift motions and fixed his brother with a steely gaze. “Even if he did teleport her away, where is that, exactly? How do we know if he’s even okay? Whether either of them are?”

“Let’s just continue with the plan,” Sam suggested, optimism belied by quiet exhaustion. “I say we head back to Pearl’s house. They might be there. And if not, then we look for more information, about Lyssa, or Nyx, or fairies… anything that could help.” 

Dean nodded. “But first, let’s check the bunker. They might not have gone anywhere. He might have taken her to the basement, or back to her room.” He jammed his hand into his jean’s pocket and fished out his phone. He tilted his head towards his brother’s pocket. “Let’s call them while we look.”

Sam exhaled softly through his nose in affirmation and pulled out his own phone. Both their phones were ringing as the hustled up the short flight of steps leading out of the garage.


	16. With a Capital R

Castiel could see nothing, feel nothing. But then, as if he was a sleeping limb awakening, he began to feel tingling. The all encompassing darkness began to lighten like the dawn slowly breaking, and what was once silence became an ever increasing whoosh, like the ocean in a shell. At first his vision swam with milky grey, but he could feel his eyes blinking thickly, his facial muscles awash in a prickling sensation. He could feel his arms wrapped around something, something twisting and thrashing against him. The noise grew louder, more resonant. With a sudden  _ whump _ , he was whole, and grounded, and he realized the twisting, thrashing someone was Charlene, and the roaring of the ocean was her own guttural wail of anguish. 

He strained to stabilize himself, and unconsciously flapped his wings to keep them upright as she struggled. They stood out behind him, each raven feather whispering with every movement the angel made. Charlene twisted with strength Castiel did not anticipate. Every capillary beneath her pale skin coursed vermillion, pulsing with rage at each attempt to free herself. Red miasma coiled beneath her feet, leaked from her fingertips pinned to her sides, and even hissed from her eyes, themselves a fearsome crimson. Castiel wanted to cover his ears but didn’t dare loosen his grip. He looked around frantically, trying to ascertain his surroundings, and realized they were in a forest grove surrounded by huge sycamore trees, the air a pink haze that throbbed with each of Charlene’s thrashing movements. 

“Oh, no…” Castiel thought to himself. “Not here, not back to this place…” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He couldn’t take her back to the bunker, it wasn’t safe. Maybe he could take her somewhere isolated, one of the fields outside town. He took another breath and made his attempt, but they didn’t move. He tried again, to no avail. She was anchored to this place, whatever it was. It was with that realization that Castiel chose another tactic. He stretched his wings out wide, wrapped them completely around Charlene, and began softly singing, voice low but still resonant, faltering slightly with her every twist and jerk.

“Wine, women, and song, I tried them all it did not take me long to figure I’d unlocked the door to happiness. I figured wrong.”

Castiel thought he detected a slight slackening and continued, swaying slightly.

“With a capital R. All the baggage I brought wouldn’t fit in a mid-sized car. That’s why I’m walking on eggshells down the via dolorosa, hasn’t got me any closer so far.”

He closed his eyes as he sang, his voice growing louder. Charlene’s wails diminished into whimpering, but she still struggled in his grip. He took another breath, and as he did a glow settled into his chest and grew as he continued.

“Shacked up with a poet, no it wasn’t my department. Now I study the poetry of the studio apartment. Changing the catbox, baking the bread, I should have been paying the bills instead of paying homage to an image--”

“Drawn from somebody else’s head,” Charlene whispered weakly, her salt-stained cheek pressed to Castiel’s own. She panted softly, but was no longer struggling, no longer shaking.

Castiel pulled his wings back as he brought his hands around to hold her by her upper arms as if to examine her. She was flushed and ruddy, red-eyed with chapped lips. Her eyes were wide, jaw slightly slack as she stared at Castiel, whose glow dimmed as his eyes narrowed.

“Your… your wings!” she exclaimed, squirming down and out of his grasp to dart around behind him. 

Castiel pulled his wings in closer to his body in a reflexive action, causing Charlene to back off slightly. He was overwhelmed by it all, the struggle, the transport, and now Charlene’s infuriatingly endearing inquisitiveness that had no place in… where ever they had now found themselves.

“My god, Cas, they’re beautiful!” she barely whispered, hands clasped at her chest as she leaned in closer for a better look. Castiel shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his feathers hissing lightly as they rustled. She popped around from the side and Castiel found himself again face-to-face with her. “They are more amazing than I could have ever imagined,” she croaked, a wide smile erasing what anger might have been left there. She gently placed a hand over his heart and he cleared his throat, eyes flickering down momentarily.

“Thank you. I… grew them myself.”

With that she gave him a playful shove and his wings phased out of their plane. It was only then that Charlene took a moment to measure their surroundings.

“Uh, Cas? Where are we?”  
“I was hoping you knew.”


	17. A Door

“No sign?” asked Sam of his brother, already knowing the answer.

“Nada. They ain’t here, Sammy.” Dean wrestled with the concern on his face as he fingered his car keys.

“And you prayed?”

“Shit yeah, I prayed,” he shot back, annoyed at his own annoyance. “Nothin’. He ain’t answering his phone, either. It’s time.”

Sam nodded. “We’re goin’ back?”

“And this time, I’m drivin’.”

They had to take the Camaro because the engine in the Impala was still in need of rebuilding. Once they got on the road, they didn’t speak much. Sam thought about commenting on how well the car looked, but thought better of it when he saw Dean’s white knuckles gripping the recently conditioned steering wheel. He instead resumed his attempts to reach either Castiel or Charlene on the phone. Suddenly, he put the phone down and turned.

“Dean, we have to stop at Charlene’s.”

“Wait, why?” Dean finally spoke, and the tense air of the car dissipated slightly.

“She, she has all of these journals, letters from her mother. And those photos! Remember, the ones with that figure in the background? The ones with Lyssa? Those might help us figure out where she is -- where Cas is.”

“Alright,” Dean conceded. “I guess we should have as much to look at as we can considering we don’t know what to look for in the first place.”

“I think I know what to look for,” Sam replied softly.

Dean turned his head and narrowed his eyes at his brother as they took the turn into town. “And what would that be?”

“A door.”

Sam picked the lock on both the exterior and interior doors to Charlene’s apartment while Dean stood out in Dante’s parking lot as a lookout. Sam gave a small sigh as he walked into the flat. The place smelled of Charlene and for a brief moment it fogged his thinking. With a quick shake of his head he strode into the room. Next to the futon was a backpack. Sam scooped it up and quickly emptied it of its contents: a waitressing uniform, a spare pair of socks, a mostly empty packet of cigarettes, a small quad rule notebook, and a handful of pens. Into he began ladling in the contents of the various boxes he’d looked through before, including photos and letters from Pearl. He shoved in the journals he’d found, including the ones with the haunting drawings and inscriptions in Greek. He gave the apartment one more quick walkthrough and then whispered, “Sorry,” before backing out and closing the door softly.

“Took you long enough,” grumbled Dean as Sam came out the exterior door.

“Dude,” Sam sighed, “I just wanted to be thorough,” though he kept pace with his brother as they hustled back to the car. 

Once they were back on the street, Dean started in again. “So, we are looking for a door?”

“Uh, yeah, a door. Or a way to a door. Or a key. Someone or someTHING that can open the door. Because Cas and Charlene? They aren’t--”

“In Kansas anymore,” interrupted Dean flatly.

“Yeah. That. I don’t think this is like where the two of you went before. This isn’t a dream state. Their corporeal forms are gone. I think Charlene took them --”

“Or Lyssa.”

“At this point, there might be little difference between the two of them.” Sam’s gaze wandered outside the car window at the town rolling by. He was struck by how small it looked, how simple it seemed, and how alien. He had spent his whole life moving from one podunk town to another, and never once did he feel at home in one.

Suddenly, there was a sharp snapping in his face as his brother barked his name. He shook his head and realized they had arrived. They were are Pearl’s house.

“S-sorry,” Sam mumbled. “I must’ve spaced out.”

“Glad to see you haven’t disappeared on me, too.”

\-------------

Charlene stood with her hands on her hips in the middle of the grove, staring up into the seemingly never ending canopies of the trees rising up from the red mists of the forest floor. The air was thick and stagnant, and the forest was silent but for the occasional cawing of a crow from somewhere in the distance. She turned to see concern gnawing at Castiel’s face.

“You aren’t telling me the truth,” she accused with narrow eyes. “You know this place.”

“I do and I don’t,” the angel replied with uncertainty. “I have seen this place, and I think my mind has been here, but not my corporeal form.”

“When I conked you out.”

“When Lyssa ‘conked’ me out,” Castiel gestured in correction.

“Same difference,” Charlene muttered with a sigh as she turned away. She took a few steps forward and away from Castiel, and called back by way of an apology. “Blue, this is my fault. All of it.” She unzipped her sweatshirt and pulled it off, and it was then Castiel got a better look at the markings on Charlene’s back as her t-shirt rode up. It was a tattoo. A tattoo of a pair of large, black wings trailing down either side of her spine. He stopped dead in his tracks, the red mist lapping at his legs like a gentle tide.

“Charlene,” he barked, surprised at his own roughness.

She turned sweatshirt balled in her hand, drawstrings swinging wildly. “Yeah?”

“Your back.”

He saw her eyes flash like hazard lights as a lump bobbed in her throat. “I was, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that.”

“That I wouldn’t notice the giant pair of black wings tattooed on your back?”

“I just, I thought, I mean,” she stammered, frustrated by her inability to form a coherent sentence. “IT’S JUST TOO WEIRD!”

“Weirder than this?” he gestured at their surroundings with open hands.

“Weird like having giant black wings tattooed to your back and then becoming best friends with someone who has ACTUAL giant black wings coming out of his back! And then SEEING his wings! And the worst part?” Charlene began pumping the balled up shirt in her hand like a pom pom, emphasizing every word. “The worst part is that I don’t even REMEMBER getting this tattoo! This is easily an 8 hour piece, and I just woke up one day with it. I thought I must have drank too much, maybe gotten drugged. Anything could have happened and I had no memory of it! I even went to the doc just to make sure that I… didn’t catch anything. Or that someone had… interfered with me in some way.” She took a deep breath and subdued herself, letting her arm fall back to her side. “This tattoo,” she said, turning away and yanking the hem of her shirt up with her free hand, “represents what I’m most afraid of. Loss of autonomy. Loss of control. And now I’m here because of it, and you are too.” 

Castiel was silent a moment, then responded with an even, measured question. “I am your best friend?”

She turned and looked up and Castiel could see a look of determination fill in the hollows of her face. She wrapped the arms of the shirt around her waist and tied an emphatic knot. “Blue, you’re my only friend. And if I brought you here, I can get you back out.”


	18. It's All Greek

Sam and Dean pushed open the front door of the house to find things exactly how they had left them. The living room, if you could call it that, was a shambles of books and manuscripts, loose pages, journals, and drawings that covered every available surface. The very sight of it visibly deflated the brothers, who then turned to one another for guidance.

Dean started. “Where do we even start? I mean, in the Bunker everything is catalogues and organized. This is… this is an episode of Hoarders.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking, and it seems to me we should start with her journals.”

“Her journals? Sammy, how much more of her man-murderin’ wackadoo shit do we need to read before--”  
“Dean.” Sam’s voice was insistent. “WE keep journals. We put down all the important information, spells, wards, and every other important detail that is relevant to the case. It’s the Reader’s Digest version of our lives. Now Pearl may have been unbalanced--”

“UNBALANCED? Y’think?!”

“--but her plans are most likely transcribed somewhere. I think if we start there, and focus on anything pertaining to summoning, or opening a door…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” Dean sighed and shrugged. “Gimme something to read already.”

\----------

“Tell me about Dean,” Charlene said as she led the two of them down a snaking path through the towering trees. They’d been walking for an hour, treading carefully as it was difficult to see the ground beneath the heavy layer of red mist crawling across the forest floor. Charlene had suggested they move forward, to look for anything that stood out. Perhaps they’d find a clue, or something Charlene recognized. Castiel had not thought the task would include being interviewed about his love life, but then again he’d been wrong before.

“W-what?” stammed Castiel.

“Dean. Tell me about Dean. Your mixtape? That was all about you, or at least your self-loathing regarding all the ways you perceive yourself having let him down. Tell me about him, the man. What do you like about him? Why do you love him?”

They continued walking and Castiel said nothing, and Charlene didn’t prod. She was about to tell him to forget it, to apologize for her chronic bluntness, but suddenly he spoke.

“I’ve always loved him,” was his soft reply.

“What do you mean, ‘always’?”

Castiel cleared his throat to give himself enough time to find the right words. “Hester, another angel, once told Dean than when I first laid my hand upon him in Hell that I was lost. She meant it to illustrate that the Winchesters had corrupted me, caused me to side with them against Heaven. But in another way, she was right.”

Charlene stopped and turned to face him, giving him a precipitating half smile. “This sounds even better than I hoped.”

Castiel leaned backwards against the nearest tree, seemingly exhausted with himself. “I had been sent to rescue his soul from Hell. I’d never seen a human soul, not out in the open like that before. It was this pitiful, sputtering, tortured creature, not the commodity I’d been taught they were. And when I grabbed it -- him -- I knew I’d been lied to. About what humanity was, what my purpose was. When I gripped him and turned to fight my way out, all that was him, is him, it coursed through me. It was as it all of humanity’s love and hate and joy and anger and sorrow and hunger was revealed to me simultaneously. My job was to prevent the apocalypse, but in that moment, all I could think of was the well being of this one HUMAN man. I had never felt… anything! Never before had I known these emotions. I had always been told I was a soldier for good, but I had never felt goodness. Never felt love. I didn’t know what it was then, but over time I learned. I’ve always loved him.”

Charlene stepped up to Castiel and turned to lean up against the tree next to him and sighed. “Someday, you should really let me write all of this down. You know, for posterity. This may be the greatest love story ever told.”

\----------

Dean and Sam sat on the floor of Pearl’s paper-and-tome cluttered living room for several hours, open journals and books spread around them as they scanned for something, anything that might be of use. The air was tense; periodically Dean would snap books shut in frustration and toss them to the floor. Those, invariably, were books written in Greek or sometimes Latin. Dean had picked up some Latin over the years, but Greek… well, Greek was all Greek to Dean. They both agreed; this was looking less and less like fairy magic the more they read. They couldn't find anything related to Oberon or fairy tribunals. Pearl’s journals turned out to be equally as frustrating. There was nothing specific about summoning Lyssa, just a lot of repeated vagaries about “the Chosen Vessel” that must be “prepared” for Lyssa’s arrival. Nothing new. Essentially, they were back to square one. Sam began sorting the rest of the books, pushing the ones in English over to his brother while he tackled the others with a combination of strong inference skills coupled with Google Translate. He would occasionally jot down a note or two in his own nearly half empty journal.

Sam was scanning his own notes again as he squeezed the back of his neck in stiff annoyance, but then suddenly snapped his attention toward his brother who was brain-deep in a book titled “Titans: How Homer Got it Wrong”.

“Dean!”

Dean looked up with a squint. “You weren’t kidding about that castration stuff. It says her--”

“Dean, I think we’ve been going about this wrong. Thinking about it backwards. Maybe we aren’t looking for a door.”

“How the hell are we supposed to get where we’re going without going there?” Dean sniped. He was frustrated. This was beginning to feel like a goose chase without a goose.

“No, I mean, what if we find someone who knows where the door is?”

“Interdimensional doorman for the world’s oldest murder club?”

“Basically. Someone who can get us in. A gatekeeper.”

“Like Zuul?”

Sam couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“C’mon, man! It’s a classic!”

“... Yes. Like Zuul.”

Dean chuckled, and Sam had to admit it was nice to see his brother smile. Dean was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve. In fact, he’d made a career out of deprioritizing his own desires, and with Castiel gone it seemed as if he’d resumed the same routine.

“Where do go to find someone like that?” Dean asked gruffly, the momentary levity replaced by familiar frustration.

“I don’t think we go anywhere. I think we can bring them to us.” With that, Sam got to his knees and started rummaging through the books in his vicinity. Eventually, he snatched up one of the books from the floor and held it out to his brother. It was old, and well worn. Dean opened it up and thumbed through it. It was in Greek, and looked just like every other book on the innumerable shelves the surrounded them. Dean eyed him with annoyance; obviously he’d have no idea what it was.

“I skimmed this one already, did some rough translations. I think that book contains summoning spells. As in, we can call on someone who might be able to help us out.” He climbed to his feet and reached down for the book and to help Dean up.

“I thought you said we couldn't summon Lyssa,” Dean spat with frustration.

Sam opened the book to a specific page to show his brother. “That's true, we can’t. These spells are diety-specific, and none are for Lyssa. Most of these are damaged or illegible, but I think this one is mostly intact.”

“Who ya gonna call?” Dean asked with a weak smirk.

 _He’s fraying._ Though Sam.

Sam gave a small, satisfied smile in return, then replied, “apparently, we’re going to call Dionysos.”

\---------

There were some material components required by the spell, different from what they usually used for their work. They needed wine; they found a dusty bottle of cooking wine in the back of one of the kitchen cupboards, behind a tin of nutmeg that had expired in 1983. They needed sage, which Sam correctly remembered seeing next to Pearl’s bed. They needed a drawing or effigy of the person being summoned. Dean tore a page from another book he’d skimmed, a picture of a vase illustrating a young, nude man laid out on a chaise surrounded by women and satyrs. The caption read “Dionysos and entourage”.

“I wonder if he’ll be naked when he shows up?” Sam wondered aloud.

Dean replied only with a nearly imperceptible blush and a mild grimace, rolling his eyes with a unconvincing chuff of indifference.

Sam shrugged as they headed to the back through the kitchen to the door leading to the backyard, armed with everything they needed to discover the answer themselves.


	19. Old Magic

Castiel and Charlene walked through the forest for what seemed like hours; it was never ending. There were no discernable landmarks, just one huge tree after another extending up into the red mist and then disappearing.

“Blue,” Charlene said, breaking the silence. They hadn’t spoken much following Castiel’s story of meeting Dean. Charlene felt like anything she could add would cheapen it. Now, though, she had an idea. “Do those wings of yours work? For flying, I mean.”

Castiel stopped and shrugged. “Not here. I tried to take us out of here before, to no avail. They are… well, in this place they appear to be just for show. The mechanics of this place… this is different magic. Old magic. My god isn’t the only one, as you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighed, eyeing the ground and then following the base of the nearest tree up the trunk into the haze beyond. “If only we could somehow get up there. Get above all this to get our bearings.”

Castiel followed her eyes up the tree, but to his frustration he saw as she did that the nearest branch was easily 20 feet up if not more, and the trunk of the tree was more of a smooth cliff face rather than anything scalable. 

Charlene seemed to simultaneously understand this, and the cheerful veneer she’d been maintaining suddenly cracked.

“Fucking DAMN IT!” she shouted, and Castiel thought he saw her eyes flash red just for a moment. She kicked at a huge felled log, three feet in diameter, and to Castiel’s great shock it moved. Rolled. The whole log rolled a good two feet away from the force of Charlene’s kick. They both froze and stared at the log, dumbfounded.

“Did I just Hulk out for a second?” she muttered, incredulous.

Castiel cleared his throat. “Well, it did take all of my strength to hold you down once we arrived here, and I was barely successful. You brought us here, this is your place. Maybe you are different here, stronger.”

Charlene placed her hands on her hips and pursed her lips in thought. “I think I gots me an idea.” With that, she walked over to one end of the log and gestured with her head to the other end. “A little help?”

The log itself was at least 40 feet long, looking like the top of a tree blown off in a windstorm. The ends were jagged and splinted, and upon closer inspection Castiel saw a large charred section near one end.

“Lightning strike,” he said, and she nodded.

“Cas, can you lift that end?” She asked. 

He cleared his throat and squatted, gripping underneath the splintered trunk. He exhaled through clenched teeth as he rose, bringing the tree to waist-height and panting slightly with exertion. It took all of his considerable strength to hold it, and he didn’t know for how long.

She nodded in approval and then ducked underneath the tree, facing Castiel with her back pressed up against the trunk. Castiel’s eyes flashed with concern; the tree was very heavy and he could feel his forearms starting to shake. Charlene took a deep breath and Castiel saw her eyes flash red, no--stay red, as she pushed back and upwards, bracing the tree against her shoulders with her arms at either side. She exhaled hard, again and again, as she slid the tree up and back. Red mist started to snake from her hands and feet as she exerted herself, red eyes flaring and breaths coming out as ragged gasps. The bark of the tree pulled against her shirt, pulling it upwards and leaving angry scrapes against her skin. Her back tattoo was fully exposed, and it began to ooze the same red haze as the tree moved up, up, up until it was standing completely on end.

Castiel could only stand and stare, completely in awe.

Charlene slowly brought herself around so that she hugged the tree, and with one final push she tilted the trunk in the opposite direction where it came crashing down to rest between the boughs of the adjacent standing tree, creating a near-perfectly climbable 45 degree slope. With that, her eyes returned to normal, and mist dissipated. She tugged down the back of her shirt and dusted off her hands.

“Going up?” she smirked.

Castiel blinked away his incredulous squint and replied only, “After you.”


End file.
